The Crazy Misadventures of the Callaway Brothers
by Nyannyannayn
Summary: Post series finale House and Wilson. The title says nothing and yet says it all, doesn't it? Drama/Humor/Adventure/Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**-The Crazy misadventures of the Callaway Brothers-**

"House…" Wilson approached his best friend in his usual warning tone.

House shot him a dirty look.

Wilson rolled his eyes and sighed. "Fine! _James_, would you please step away from the mini bar… "

Raising his arms over his head, House obeyed and comically stepped back from the mini fridge.

"I don't understand why you had to get yourself an ID with MY first name on it…" Wilson spat out; he did not appreciate the irony and he was finding it hard to get used to.

"It's something to remember you by once you're gone… " House replied nonchalantly as he threw himself back on one of the beds and pulled out a packet of overpriced mini fridge pretzels he managed to sneak into his pocket before Wilson caught him in the act- much to Wilson's dismay.

Wilson rolled his eyes, "It's… It's disturbing…"

"It's the truth…" House stated with a mouth full of crunchy salty goodness, "Get used to it, _Kyle_!"

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, taking in a deep breath. House couldn't help but to look up at his friend. Though it was fun being on the road and free for the first time in his life, House also knew it was his responsibility for the next few months to watch over Wilson's wellbeing until… Well, he didn't want to think about that part just yet, but the name he chose to live the rest of his life with served as a subconscious reminder.

"Give me those!" House snapped out of his thoughts. Too late- Wilson managed to grab the bag of Pretzels away from his sticky hands.  
Wilson smiled victoriously as he threw one pretzel in his mouth.

"You take advantage of my brotherly love…" House growled, his lips forming a crooked smile.

"Oh yeah…" Wilson walked over to the small desk in the corner of the room and picked up the two shiny new identification cards. One had House's smiling face on it, a sight that made Wilson giggle. The shadow of the man that was Gregory House, now dead and buried, and instead the card read: "James Callaway." The other ID had a picture of Wilson looking confused. Naturally House would pick the worst picture as a joke. That one read: "Kyle Callaway."

"Why did you choose for us to have the same last name?" Wilson asked curiously.

"Two guys alone on motorcycles together 24/7? It was either brothers, or me having to tell the story of how I met my "life partner" to romantic-hungry-for-love single waitresses in their fifties in every diner we walked into on the way…"

Wilson shrugged. "You could just tell them we're friends…"

House got up and limped towards where Wilson was standing, he grabbed the pretzel bag back from him and shot a poisonous glare when he realized the bag was empty.

"Brothers just sounds better than Bromance…." House proclaimed, "And everybody lies…"


	2. Chapter 2

**-Pt 2-**

"Where's your cane?" Wilson finally mustered up the courage to ask.

House lifted his bright blue eyes from his plate. "James doesn't want to use a cane…"

Wilson watched his friend return to his meal. He thought of leaving it at that, but quickly opted for the more fun option.

"James is a day old, he doesn't know what he wants…"

That caught House's attention. "Oh, clever…" he growled, pointing his finger at Wilson jokingly. But there was a kind of emptiness to his tone and Wilson knew it well.

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"Yes…"

"House…"

With that, House dropped his fork down on the plate a little harder than necessary and shot Wilson a warning glare.

Wilson was taken aback, "Ok…" he said, "Fine, not a word…"

House ate the last of his fries and swung up from his seat. Wilson watched his friend suspiciously.

"I'm going to the little boys room…" House stated- one hand leaning heavily on the wall, "You think you'll manage to survive two minutes without judging me, Cancer-Boy?"

"Well you know judging you is the standard treatment for a terminal Thymoma… But I think two minutes won't make much of a difference…" Wilson joked dryly.

House nodded and limped carefully towards his destination. He tried his best not to draw any attention, especially not Wilson's attention. But his leg had other ideas.

"Ah!" he cringed and grabbed his thigh with both his hands- a painful reminder that no matter how much he wanted to leave his past behind- some wounds don't and won't heal that easily.

"Where's your cane?" House heard the familiar caring-yet-firm voice behind him. He did not look back to face Wilson. Instead focusing on his thigh.

"I told you I don't need it…" He growled.

"Well of course…" Wilson said sarcastically, "If you're not planning on doing any standing or walking…"

They just stood there for a minute saying nothing, each wondering who would be the first to give in. It finally occurred to Wilson that after all that House had done for him lately, he could probably do something for House too in the little time he had left.

"Hey… Hou… James…" Wilson whispered sharply, grabbing House's attention as he placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

House, still hunched over his thigh, turned his head.

"Look…" Wilson said softly, "I know what you're trying to do… But you've been walking without a cane for two days now… Going too fast will just prove to yourself that you can't do it, you'll be miserable again…"

"Wilson don't…"

"It's _Kyle_!" Wilson corrected. It was the first time House was the one to slip on the fake name thing, which pretty much proved to Wilson just in how much pain his friend was at the moment. "Come on…"

Wilson hoisted House and helped him to the men's room; he closed the door behind him and went back to House's side.

"Look at yourself…" Wilson gestured towards House's reflection in the mirror, "Did you take anything for the pain at all?"

House nodded. "None today… I thought… I…" he tried to finish his sentence but before he could, his thigh went into a violent and painful spasm.

"Hey…" Wilson grabbed his friend and pulled him to the ground, "Sit down for a second…" once House safely reached the cold tile floor; Wilson took a seat next to him.

House rubbed his thigh, not daring to face Wilson.

"What made you think you could pull this off? You're a doctor, you know better…"

"Please save me the lecture…"

"You're doing it again… " Wilson cut his friend off, "You're setting yourself up for failure…"

House said nothing.

"I won't let you fail…" Wilson said firmly, "I've got five months left and I won't leave you like this…" he gestured toward House's mangled leg.

"You won't care when you're dead…" House said coldly.

"Yeah but until then I can make sure you do things right." He paused for a second, then got up from the ground and faced House.

"James Callaway…" He said, looking down into a pair of pained blue eyes, "I promise you that before my time is up, You will walk cane free again, at least on the good days… And although you may not be pain free, I will make goddamn certain your life is not ruled by pain…" He smiled. And was relieved to see House throwing a weak smile back.

"You see …" Wilson continued, rummaging through his pockets, "I had this friend, and though he was a good friend… He was always in pain- he was miserable… I'll be damned if I let the same thing happen to my big brother…" he finally pulled an orange pill bottle out of his pocket, "Here… Take these you dumbass…" he threw the bottle in House's direction.

House caught the bottle and smiled. "Oxy?"

"We're on vacation…"


	3. Chapter 3

**-Pt 3-**

_Tap…Tap…Tap…_

Wilson was curled up on the lumpy mattress, half asleep. He was pretty sure he still had an hour left to sleep in. But the sounds of a long-stick-like object tapping on his back through the blanket proved otherwise.

_Tap…Tap…Tap…Tap…_

He finally decided to remove the blanket from over his head. Rolling on his back, he blinked his vision into focus and was now facing House or James… Whatever his name was—Wilson was ready to punch him, and throw his pesky cane out the window.

"Still dying?" House asked dryly.

Wilson stretched and took in a deep pained breath, "Yeah…" He replied, clutching his aching chest for a moment. "You're still dead?"

House looked around him and outside the window. No police, no parole officers, "Still dead…"

This was their lovely morning routine. Some would bid good morning, some would ask their friends how are they were doing. But for House and Wilson, "Good morning" seemed rather redundant at this point.

"You're ready to do this?" House asked as he kept packing miscellaneous objects into a backpack.

Wilson pressed his eyebrows and studied the older man for a moment, "Judging by your energy level you've been awake for a while…" he said while slipping into a clean t-shirt, "And judging by your 'limpy' yet steady gait… You're probably under the influence of at least 3 of my pain meds…"

"Just one of the many perks of having a terminal BFF…" Said House as he happily showed off another little white pill, which he quickly threw in his mouth and dry swallowed.

"Hey hey… I need those y'know…" Wilson said, suppressing a yawn.

House rolled his eyes, "Didn't mommy teach you how to share?" He pulled five different rattling orange pill bottles out of the pockets of his utility jacket and threw them on Wilson's lap. "Happy?" he asked, faking bitterness.

Wilson looked down to his lap, "Ecstatic… Just what I wanted for breakfast…" he answered dryly.

"I also got you some Froot-Loops!"

The small sample-sized cereal box flew right into Wilson's lap.

"Eat up, drug up…" House swung one backpack on his shoulder and pushed the other one towards Wilson, "We leave in 15 minutes…"

...

The climb was long and hard, they've made many stops along the way to hydrate, eat something and take in the sounds of nature. It wasn't until they were almost at the very top that the monotone sound of breathing was cut off.

"Hey… Stop…!"

House turned around. Wilson was a few steps behind him and was now dropping his backpack and slowly lowering himself to the ground.

"What are you doing?" House asked taking a few steps towards Wilson who was now leaning against a shaded tree, panting rather heavily.

"Just a little bit more to the top, c'mon!" House tried to urge his friend.

"I eh… I, I can't…" Wilson managed to spit out through a series of pained breaths.

"This was _your_ stupid idea…" House spat out while kicking a tiny rock with his cane, "I had to load up on so many of your pain pills in order to do this, I can't even feel my feet, and don't get me started on m…."

"House!"

Wilson looked pale and clammy, his breathes short and shallow and a pained look was now spreading across his face. House sighed, finally accepting that it might be a good idea to assess Wilson's current situation.

Leaning on one knee, House gave Wilson a quick look-through. "Come on, Wilson…" He finally said.

Wilson opened one eye and peeked at House, confused.

"If you won't do this now…"

"I'm dying… House…" Wilson croaked. He still maintained a shaky hand on his chest but sounded slightly better.

"Yeah…" House replied sadly, "But not today."

Wilson took in another sharp breath, "Stop stealing my pills, ok?"

"Ok…" House nodded.

Wilson sighed heavily, "I don't know if I can do this House…"

"It's James…"

"There's no one around," Wilson argued, "Who cares?"

House pushed himself up and extended a hand down to Wilson.

"Come on…" He said, "Let's just get to the top of the hill today and tomorrow you can go back to being sick and dying and I can go back to not stealing pills and managing my pain like a reasonable adult…"

...

The view was breathtaking, the air was crisp and House and Wilson sat at the edge of the hill, each nursing a lukewarm beer in their hand.

"So, was it worth it?" House asked as he took another sip of his beer.

Wilson closed his eyes and let the clean windy scent of pine fill his nostrils.

"Yeah. It was…"

They sat there, for who knows how long, just savoring the moment without a care in the world.

"Well…" Wilson finally said, "We're going to have to go down eventually… How do you plan on doing this?"

House looked down at his aching thigh and then back at Wilson, "I was thinking I would just roll you down the hill and use you as a human sled…"

Wilson shrugged, looking rather impressed, "Solid plan…" he raised his can of beer in a toast;

"To climbing the hill…"

"And more importantly…" House retorted, "To making it down…before coyotes eat us…"

"Cheers…"


	4. Chapter 4

**-Pt 4-**

"Don't…" Wilson warned.

"I'm not."

"Yes you are…"

House and Wilson were comfortably seated at the dimly lit bar. House took another sip of his scotch while Wilson signaled the bartender to get him another beer.

"She's clearly conning him…" House mumbled under his breath, tilting his head toward the booth closest to the bar.

"Stop eavesdropping." Wilson warned for a second time.

House leaned back in his seat in order to get a closer look at the booth.

"Oh great…" Wilson rolled his eyes, taking another sip of his beer, "So much for being discreet…" he slammed the bottle rather loudly on the bar counter.

The lady in the booth smiled at the older man seated across from her and shook his hand. She then got up, grabbed her bag and began making her way towards the ladies room; her heels clunked loudly as she passed by the bar. House took this opportunity and followed her with his gaze as she made her way through the crowd.

"Did she just prove your theory?" Wilson asked.

"Nope. That's just a nice piece of ass…" House downed his scotch and turned his gaze to the older man who was still seated at the booth, "It's him I'm worried about…"

Wilson sighed, "You're not worried about anyone… You're just bored!"

House gave Wilson an inquisitive look.

"You miss your puzzles, it's been months since you've done anything remotely close to being mind stimulating for you."

House smiled, "So your theory is I am now looking for a puzzle in this guy, at this bar?"

"Pretty much…" Wilson made eye contact with the bartender and pointed at his empty beer, "You're like a hamster with no wheel… And if you won't find an outlet for your crazy energy you'll chew on the wires and eat your cage mate…"

After receiving a fresh beer, Wilson turned back to House who was still fixated on the booth. Only now House's blue eyes zoomed to the furthest corner of the bar where a much younger man in a denim jacket was text messaging on his phone.

"Well don't worry, 'cage mate'…" House said as he stepped away from the bar, "I'll make sure you won't get eaten just yet…"

Wilson shrugged, "Sure, make fun of my metaphors… Yours are much better… wait—_No!"_

He tried to stop House but unfortunately his reflexes- dulled by alcohol were no match for his friend's sheer determination at that very moment.

House limped swiftly toward the booth, throwing Wilson a cheeky grin over his shoulder. To which Wilson replied with a confused lift of the eyebrows and a slight shake of the head.

House Towered over the booth, shadowing the old man, who immediately looked up curiously.

"You don't look like a waiter…" The old man commented.

"Really? That's strange…" House said as he hooked his cane to the back of the seat. "Oh wait, it's because I'm not one, so don't ask me for to refill that drink."

There was an awkward pause as House took a seat in front of the old man.

"What do you think you're doing?" The man asked, now slightly agitated.

"Me?" House said faking a smile, "Just taking a break for a moment… Leg hurts… " He pointed down to his bad leg.

The older man pressed his eyebrows and licked his lip nervously, his demeanor was serious, and House knew he had other reasons to be upset besides his presence.

"You're not the father…" House quickly said, his features now softer, and his tone lacking its usual snark.

The man looked confused, "How did you know I…?"

House nodded toward the ladies restroom, "She's younger, not a girlfriend- or else she would've given you more than a handshake. She's wearing a dress a size too small, her complexion seems to have cleared up just recently. You…"  
House took in a breath before he continued, "You're at least 20 years older than her, well dressed, you're wearing a ring- you're married but not to her- because while you're wearing 600 dollar shoes- she has a dress off the rack of a local department store on."

House tilted his head towards the end of the bar, where the younger man was still standing. "He's the father… the boyfriend. Judging by his haggard appearance and worn out tennis shoes, I'm going to guess he's been out of work for a while. By the nervous shake of his fingers as he texts away, I'm going to guess that he is receiving a text right now, from the ladies bathroom, informing him that the brilliant plan to make you, her boss, believe that the baby is yours due to a recent affair, has worked and that you, stupid-old-cheat, will in fact pay anything for her silence."

House smiled, rather impressed with himself. His smile was short lived though as the older man's lip curled in anger and his face turned bright red.

"Who the hell are you and how do you know all this? Are you spying on me!"

House's eyes widened, "No… I'm just a highly observant stranger…"

"And you expect me to believe that?" The man was now so close to House's face, he could feel his warm angry breaths, "Who sent you? Are you trying to blackmail me? Are you going to tell Sylvia?"

"Sylvia…" House scratched the stubble on his chin, "Your wife right?"

The man slammed his fists on the table, "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!"

That got the attention of the rest of the bar, including Wilson, who sprinted to the booth as the older man began to grab House by his shirt collar.

"Hey hey!" Wilson placed a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Get your hands off me! Do you know this clown?" The man shouted.

"He's my brother!" Wilson explained, "And I'm really sorry, he has boundary issues and was dropped on his head as a child!" Wilson snarled and gave House a look as he grabbed him by the arm and got him up from his seat.

"What's going on here?" All eyes turned to the lady with the clunking heels who apparently decided this would be a good time to make an appearance.

"Oh crap…" Wilson rolled his eyes.

"SO YOU WE'RE PLANNING ON BLACKMAILING ME AND THEN HAVING THESE TWO SPY BOZOS TELL MY WIFE ANYWAY?" The man blared at the younger woman. She then froze in her spot completely stunned and slack jawed.

Wilson looked at House—who was smiling ear to ear. "I was right."

"Not now, _James_!" Wilson warned through clenched teeth.

"I've never seen these two men in my life!" The lady tried to explain.

"Oh yeah?" The older man cut her off, "Then how did he know about your friend over there?" He pointed to the woman's boyfriend in the corner, who immediately made a run for it and was gone within seconds.

"I can explain!"

"Like hell you can!" The man tried to grab the woman, who let out a shriek.

"Hey!" House pushed the man, allowing the woman to break free and run off.

Wilson looked around the bar, he noticed the bartender picking up the phone.

"_James_! Hey! _James_!" he shook House's shoulder, "We've got to get out of here!"

But before they could do anything, the man had Wilson in a headlock.

"You want to fuck around with something that matters to me? How would you feel if I messed up your brother's face, right here right now!"

The man was angry, half out of his mind with rage. It was obvious that his wife finding out about these events would cost him more than he was willing to accept—his family life, perhaps even his career.

In a fight there are only two options; fight or flight.  
Now House, he was usually a fight kind of guy. James on the other hand had a brother to look after and it was that split second of a thought that made House pull Wilson out of the man's grip.

"Come on!" He yelled, grabbing Wilson tightly by the arm. He did not look back to see if the man was coming after them. He did not stop when he heard the police cars come to a loud halt in front of the bar.

House finally stopped at the back of some stinking alley. He let go of Wilson and leaned forward, hands on knees trying to catch his breath.

"You're insane!" Wilson blurted, "You got the police out there! Is it some sort of personal goal of yours to have a police record for every identity you obtain!"

"I was trying to help the guy!" House retorted defensively.

"Oh yeah! He seemed really grateful!" Wilson coughed.

"Are you okay?" House asked.

"I've just been choked by an angry man twice my size. It sucks… But I'll be fine…"

"He shouldn't have done that…" House said hoarsely, pacing back and forth in the small alley.

"Yeah well, you pissed him off… Seems to be a specialty of yours if I recall…"

"Still…" House was still pacing, rather madly.

"_James_…" Wilson cut off his friend, "Where's your cane?"

"I don't know…"

Wilson kept glaring at the pacing middle-aged wonder.

"How's your leg?"

House finally stopped in his spot. "What? Who cares, _Kyle_!"

Wilson pressed his eyebrows; "You just ran all the way from the bar to this alley, and instead of being in sheer burning agony, you're pacing…"

House placed a hand on his bad thigh.

"Without a cane!" Wilson emphasized.

"Adrenaline…" House said in his usual gravelly voice, "You're sick, I had to get you out of there…"

"Who cares?" Wilson wasn't going to let House make any excuses, "You still did it!"

House looked at Wilson, and then down to his bad leg, he lifted it, bending his knee a few times. "Ok…" he said- acknowledging that there might be something new here.

"Some things are cooler than puzzles, James…" Wilson smiled.

House shrugged.

They started making their way back to the parking lot where their motorcycles stood.

"And you can't just randomly diagnose strangers at bars, ok?" Wilson said in his usual mothering-hen sort of way, "You're not a doctor anymore, you're just an insane middle-aged gruff weirdo who sees and hears too much…"

House suppressed a chuckle, "Point taken…"


	5. Chapter 5

**-Pt 5-**

The sound of passing vehicles could be heard from the small off-road motel room. With each "whooshing" sound, a beam of light traveled through the window and into the room- keeping House wide awake. Add to that the fact that his leg was practically killing him, excuse the irony, and he just knew there was no use in fighting it- this was going to be yet another restless night.

He sat at the foot of the bed rubbing his thigh. Life "on the road" was beginning to take its toll. The orange pill bottles that sat on Wilson's nightstand we're practically taunting him- arranged in a way that literally made them look as if they we're giving him the middle finger.

Slowly, and in an effort to make as little noise as possible, House got up to his feet. He took one step forward but quickly realized this wasn't a "walk-cane-free" kind of night. He sighed and with one hand supporting his weight by holding onto a bedpost, he leaned forward and grabbed the cane.

Two steps, three steps, four steps… And House was now facing the nightstand on the opposite side of the room. He looked down at Wilson, who was sound asleep. His mouth slightly open as his chest rose up and down.  
House picked up one of the orange bottles. It read: _"Hydrocodone"_ and the way it felt in the palm of his hand was enough to comfort him like an old friend.

The bottle opened with the usual popping sound, which made House feel like a dog in a Pavlov experiment. He swirled two pills with his fingers and could feel his leg instantly relax as if his mind was already telling it: _"Don't worry, it will be over soon…"_

It was the sound of a deep pained cough that distracted House and made him quickly drop the pills on the nightstand and turn his attention to Wilson.  
He was still asleep- laying flat on his back but he seemed to be going through a sudden coughing fit.

"Hey…" House whispered, now hovering over Wilson. He placed one hand on his friend's chest and slid another under his back. "Turn'round…" He whispered, and rolled Wilson to his side, placing a hand on his ribcage for a moment. After a few smaller coughs Wilson's breathing seemed to even out.

House grabbed the two pills in his hand and eyed them. He paid close attention to Wilson's steady breathing. He sighed, threw the pills back into the bottle and placed it back on the nightstand. He'll just wait until morning to take the pills like he was supposed to do anyhow.

He limped back to the bed and sat down. The sun was beginning to creep in through the window. His leg still hurt but that didn't matter- nothing mattered. That cough was the only thing that mattered.

…

"Why are you staring at me?" Wilson asked suspiciously as a pair of bright blue eyes wouldn't let him out of their site.

"I'm not…" House replied in a tired grainy voice.

Wilson looked down to House's plate. "You haven't touched your breakfast…" he looked back up. House's eyes still fixated on him. "Seriously, is there something on my face?"

House sighed, "Nope…" he grabbed his fork and began picking at his eggs, now avoiding Wilson's gaze completely.

"I swear, you're like a child…" Wilson said as he reached for the cream and poured it into his cup of coffee, "Something's obviously up with you… Is it the leg? Because we can take it easy today and ju…"

"My legs fine." House cut Wilson off, "And nothing's up…" he grabbed Wilson's coffee mug from out of his hand and took a sip. Nothing more normal then him taking what is rightfully Wilson's.

"Fine…" Wilson shrugged. He turned around and signaled the waitress to get them another refill on the coffee. He cleared his throat and let out a small cough into his fist as he turned back to face House, who was staring at him, with a look that Wilson could only read as extreme nervousness.

"Seriously, are you okay?" Wilson pressed his eyebrows and was now truly perplexed by his friend's sudden demeanor.

"Are YOU okay?" House retorted.

"What? Why…" Wilson snickered, "What's with you today?"

House bit his lip, "I think we need to get you a chest scan…" he said very matter-of-factly.

"What for? To find the secret garden gnomes who live in there?" Wilson retorted.

"You're coughing…"

House looked like a wounded puppy that was left in the rain and Wilson couldn't help but to laugh. "A cough? Really? Fascinating…" he replied sarcastically.

"I just want to see…"

"James!" Wilson threw House a warning glare and House went silent.

"This is not one of your cases...You know the diagnosis. A scan won't tell you anything you don't already know…"

House said nothing. For a moment all he did was just sit there and look right through Wilson. He then shot up to his feet.

"Hey, James!" Wilson shouted after his friend who was already half way out the diner, "Where are you going?"

...

House leaned against the brick wall adjacent to the diner. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath; and before he could even give himself a chance to think things through, he smashed his foot into the wall as hard as he could.

"James!" He heard Wilson calling his "name" as he dropped to the ground and curled up clutching his ankle.

"What the…" Wilson ran as fast as he could and leaned down to the sidewalk, "What the hell did you do that for?"

House winced, "I think it's broken…"

"Crap!"

…

Three hours in the emergency room and two more hours waiting for House to come out of X-Rays, Wilson sat in the waiting room and stared at the walls, which we're decorated with the most obvious of health statements; "In Pain? Let us know!" "Dangers of smoking" and "How to detect a heart attack or a stroke".

Finally the doors leading from the ward to the waiting room opened and House came limping out, his food bandaged up but otherwise looking normal.

"Sprain…" He told Wilson as he lowered himself to a seat, "And you owe this dump 2,000 dollars… James doesn't have insurance…" He smiled as he held up the medical bill.

"But you said it was broken…" Wilson was perplexed, "You would know the difference you…" Wilson paused and just gazed at his smiling friend, "Oh… Of course…" He rolled his eyes.

"And what were you up to for the past five hours?" House asked smugly, propping his bad leg on the table in front of them, "So many good options… MRI's, X-Ray Machines… This place is like Disneyland!"

Wilson sighed and pulled an envelope from the seat next to him and showed it to House, who just sat quietly with a weak smile.

Wilson opened the envelope and pulled an X-Ray out of it, he handed it to House and let him take it in for a moment.

After a few seconds, Wilson pointed to a lit spot on the X-Ray. "My cough…" He said.

House nodded.

"Ready to go?' Wilson asked. They left the hospital without saying a word.

…

"So…" Wilson said sipping on his beer at yet another local dingy bar, "You manipulated me into getting an X-Ray and you got this brand new shiny painful ankle sprain to distract you…"

"Overall it's not a bad day for James Callaway…" House smiled and leaned back.

"But explain to me…" Wilson wondered, "You are all about the truth, the diagnosis, the mystery… There was no mystery here, why we're you so desperate to see…"

House downed his drink. "Seeing is believing…"

Wilson chuckled ironically, "You needed an X-Ray to believe my tumor is giving me a cough? What's next? If we see Jesus on a peel of a potato are we going to start going to church?"

House shrugged, "You're Jewish…"

"You get off on the truth for the same reasons people turn to religion at a time of crisis…" Wilson ignored House; "You needed to see the 'cough' for the same reason people feel a need to pray. Knowing comforts you- helps you deal…"

"Well you've been head-shrinking me for years so you obviously know better then I do…" House retorted darkly, "And when did this turn into a philosophical religious discussion?"

"You were willing to physically hurt yourself to _see_ what you already knew, you need proof… It's your natural state, the root to all of your actions, it's the reason you're an atheist, the reason you don't believe in the afterlife, why you became a diagnostician…" Wilson stopped all of a sudden, reaching his own "House" epiphany sort of speak.

He pressed his eyebrows and looked House in the eye. "We're you… We're you in denial about me dying, House?"

House fidgeted in his seat uncomfortably, lowering his gaze, "I'm not anymore…" he took a deep shaky breath.

Wilson knew he was wrong before. This wasn't the equivalent of another case for House; this wasn't about the truth- this was about acceptance.  
Wilson felt as if he'd been punched in the gut as he watched House close his eyes and suppress a lump in his throat.


	6. Chapter 6

**-Pt 6-**

"_Thump… Thump… Thump…"_

Wilson sat on a wooden chair next to House's bedside. He was throwing a small rubber ball, one of House's many acquired toys, against the wall.

"_Thump… THUMP!"_ He slammed the ball a little louder. An action he soon regretted as he heard the couple from the room next-door squeal.

"Eh…" Came a small raspy grunt from House's direction.

"Good morning princess…" Wilson joked.

House blinked sleepily and looked at his watch, "It's 7:00am… Please tell me you're not dead yet, so I can kill you…"

"Get up!" Wilson stated energetically, giving House a slight push. "Get dressed, we've got plans…"

"Can't…" House replied dryly, "Leg hurts…"

"It hurts because you're depressed; you've been depressed ever since you made me get that last X-Ray… You need a distraction…" Wilson put on his motorcycle jacket and popped 3 pills in his mouth.

"Yeah… Because watching you pop increasing amounts of painkillers each morning is not depressing at all…" House croaked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"I would rather be high… Something you should know about…" Wilson retorted, "Now get up!"

House sighed, reluctantly pulling himself up from the bed, "Your lively energy is really putting a damper on my self-deprecation, d'you know that?"

"Obviously it's what I live for…" Wilson smiled. He was in a good mood and it was obvious the pills we're doing their job at keeping his cancer at bay.

"Can you at least share some of your happy pills with me?" House asked dryly, rubbing his thigh to get the message through to Wilson.

Wilson nodded and threw the orange pill bottle toward House. He turned around, minding his own business, and House knew this action served as an open invitation for him to take as many pills as he liked—and so he did.

…

" The Muscle Beach Annual Bodybuilding, Figure and Bikini Competition…"  
House read the large sign out loud and turned to Wilson with a questioning look, "Seriously?"

Wilson folded his arms and smiled, "Thought you'd enjoy it…"

They were surrounded by an eclectic mix of female body builders and hot bikini models—all of which we're barely wearing anything and being extremely playful with the crowd. It was that strange mix of hot and disturbing that House could really get into and enjoy—like his obsession with spud guns, mud wrestling and monster trucks.

A local shop in front of the muscle gym had two models dressed in green nurse's uniforms. One of them was handing out pamphlets, the other was smiling and holding a big sign that said: "The Doctor Is In!"

House and Wilson exchanged looks.

"I'm on it…" Wilson said.

House was somewhat surprised at how easily Wilson was going along with this. Sure, as an oncologist, Wilson dealt with his fair share of medicinal marijuana, but he never smoked the stuff himself, or at least that's what he led House to believe.

A few minutes later Wilson walked out; smiling ear-to-ear and looking so happy House thought rainbows might shoot out of his nostrils.

"This was too easy…" Wilson said as he walked back to the bench where House was now sitting, gulping on frozen lemonade and watching the crowd.

"You're a terminal cancer patient and this is _Stonersville USA_… Don't act all surprised…" House took a sip from his lemonade, "And I'm still convinced you used to smoke the stuff back in PPTH with your patients and you just never cared to share…" he added bitterly.

"Well you're wrong. I haven't touched this stuff since I was in college…" Wilson surveyed the green nugget in his hand, giving it a good whiff before he placed it in a newly purchased glass pipe.

House gave Wilson a doubtful look.

"Alright!" Wilson rolled his eyes and planted the glass pipe on his lap, "Once in a while… When a patient would reach… y'know, the end…" he couldn't help but to gulp nervously, "I would sit and smoke one with them…"

House gave half a devious smile.

"Studies have shown that casual relaxed conversations make people feel better! They were more relaxed if I was relaxed too!" Wilson added defensively, fidgeting with the pipe.

"And you think you know who your friends are…" House faked his disapproval and grabbed the glass pipe from Wilson's hand.

...

"Fifty bucks says the brunette will falcon-punch the giant tranny before the 3d round is over…"

Wilson snorted, "Well, A. You don't have fifty bucks… B. That's not a tranny… This is a _woman's_ muscle competition."

House shrugged, "Tranny doesn't care what this is…" House's eyes moved back to the stage, "Oh! Here, watch!"

Sure enough, an angry small muscular brunette turned around and kicked the tall blond muscle builder next to her right between the legs.

Wilson's jaw slacked in amazement as he realized the tall blond was in fact lying on the ground, nursing what could only be described as a "wounded sack."

House extended his hand in front of Wilson's face, "Pay up!"

Wilson, glassy eyed and very obviously stoned, chuckled, "No way… You said she would punch the tranny… She kicked her!"

"Him!" House corrected.

"Whatever… Still wrong…"

"I was right about Muscle-Babe actually being a Muscle-Bob!" House protested.

Wilson shrugged nonchalantly, "That wasn't the only parameter of the bet."

Rolling his eyes, House accepted defeat.

Wilson let out a weak chuckle. He was happy. For the moment being at least, he was pain free, he was still breathing and grateful for that. He remembered his conversation with Thirteen a few days before House's "funeral." ;

_Wilson: Does it (dying) ever stop being surreal?_

_Thirteen: It'll stop, in about… five or six months… give or take, in your case._

And it still was surreal. Wilson wondered if it will ever truly register with him that someday he might not wake up. But for the time being, he was sure of one thing, House was taking this a lot harder then he was, and though he wouldn't admit it, his leg did the talking for him.

"House…" Wilson said, and House knew this was going to be serious because Wilson was using his real name, and looking at his feet and the weed was wearing off… So he did what every mature adult friend would do. He rolled his eyes and resorted to sarcasm:

"Oh god… No… You were doing so well with the drug sharing and the beach and the babes… Don't ruin it! Don't succumb to the dark side!"

"I already succumbed to the dark side… He's tall, has blue eyes, thinning hair and currently goes by the name of James Callaway, perhaps you know him…" Wilson shot back.

House scratched his head, "My hair's not thinning…"

"Yes it is…" Wilson said dryly, "Seriously, what are you going to do once I'm…"

"Don't…" House warned. Wilson noted that at that very moment House began to throw nervous glances at his leg.

"House I just…" Wilson was speaking softly, almost whispering, "I'm worried about you, I don't… I don't want you to fall apart. I need to know that…"

"That what?" House spat out, "That I'll be ok? That I will find myself in this world once you're gone, or some other dumb cliché? You want to be sure I move on? Make peace? What—Just tell me!"

After that, House couldn't take it anymore. His features contorted as he winced in pain and clutched his thigh muscle.

Wilson closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, "I just…" He said shakily, "I just want you to be okay, House… I want you to make peace with me dying… Like I did…"

To that, House reacted with a dark distorted chuckle, so soft and maniacal it made the hair on the back of Wilson's neck prick up.

"Like you did?" House croaked in a low gravelly voice, still doubled over his thigh, "You think you made peace with your death?" he looked at Wilson with haunting blue eyes.

Wilson nodded. Not daring to say another word.

House huffed, "You're not even close to accepting your own mortality… Your mind isn't even close to registering the fact that you're dying…"

Wilson was slightly annoyed by this statement, "Who are you to tell me what I…"

"Because it's true!" House yelled, "If you were even close to accepting what was going on here you would be terrified! You wouldn't be able to function!_"_

Wilson avoided House's gaze. He swore he heard a small breathy yelp of pain from House's direction.

"And that moment will come…" House's words were loaded, heavy and pained, "When the pills won't work… When you'll be in constant pain, sick and gasping for air… Your little chemo session will seem like a vacation compared to what will happen then…"

Wilson took in a nervous breath, "Why are you telling me this?"

House shrugged, "Because I don't want to think about what will happen then, and after…" He looked up at Wilson, who seemed pale and shocked, "And neither do you…"

Wilson lowered his gaze, processing House's words.

House attended to his aching thigh in silence. After a few moments he noticed a hand extended towards him—Wilson's hand. He accepted the offer and allowed his dying friend to help him to his feet.

…

House nursed a glass of whiskey in his hand as he sat alone at the bar in the Hotel lobby. Wilson checked them into an actual hotel and not just a dingy motel this time, and House had a suspicion that it might be an act of kindness towards him since Wilson noticed his worsening leg pain. In fact, he was sure that was the reason, in typical Caring-Wilson fashion, _He couldn't even die without caring_, House thought.

An old grand piano was standing at the furthest corner of the bar and House watched carefully as a young staff member sat in front of it.

The young guy began playing. House didn't recognize the tune—probably some new age radio trash. He did know that whatever it was being played, it was being played wrong.

House downed his drink, got up on his feet and drunkenly made his way towards the piano, wincing every time the youngster missed a note.

"Hey…" He proclaimed, causing the young piano player to look up over his head.

"Get up… you stink…" House slurred.

"I…eh… Sir you don't work here…" The youngster stuttered.

"Hey…" House lifted his cane so the boy could see it, "And I'm not afraid to use it now move… move…" he shooed the boy and took his spot in front of the piano.

He began playing some old blues tune. His eyes closed as he immersed himself in the rhythm, his bad leg tapping to the beat.

Wilson stood at the corner of the bar, just listening. He was supposed to meet House there for a drink, but he wouldn't dare disturb his friend now. So he just stood there and kept listening and watching. Finally, after playing a few different tunes, House stopped. He got up, and as abruptly as he came, stood face to face in front of the slack-jawed youngster, who was waiting patiently for House to be done.

"Now this is how you play the piano, you damn whippersnapper…" House growled, purposely trying to sound like a grumpy old man, smiling devilishly as he limped away.

Wilson couldn't help but laugh at how "typically House" all this was. Somehow, as he watched his friend walk away, he just knew that House was going to be alright.


	7. Chapter 7

**-Pt 7-**

"_No news yet leading to the arrest of the arsonist who is responsible for over 40 deadly fires in residential and industrials areas in the past week. If you have any information we urge you to contact the sheriff's department at..."_

House was staring at the old 14-inch television set that hung high over the bar. He grabbed another fry and dipped it in a revolting mixture of Thousand Island dressing and yellow mustard.

"How can you even light 40 fires in a week?" Wilson commented, "He'd literally have to never stop!"

House just shrugged and kept his eyes glued to the television.

"Or…" Wilson tapped his fingers on the sticky wooden bar surface as the wheels in his brain kept turning, "Maybe he isn't acting alone…" he turned back to House looking for a response—when he failed to receive one, he just nodded, "Yeah… There has to be more than one… It's the only logical explanation" fairly pleased with his conclusion, Wilson grabbed a fry and nibbled on it happily.

"He's on his own…" House noted and helped himself to some of the fries on Wilson's plate.

Wilson, noticing that House's own plate of food was now empty, guarded his own plate and pressed his eyebrows, "One person couldn't possibly… The time alone…"

"Amphetamines… Bath Salts, Et cetera… Et cetera… Are you going to finish that?" House asked nonchalantly, eyeing the elusive plate of fried goods.

"No…" Wilson rolled his eyes. "Have at it…" House greedily grabbed the plate.

"But why would you assume it's some psycho drug trip over a criminal partnership?" Wilson asked curiously.

House eyed Wilson as if he was a small, very stupid, child. "What group of people do you know go torch towns non stop for a week just for kicks? Not exactly the best group activity… Unless you want to…" House gestured toward himself and Wilson, then lit the invisible match that was his finger and pretended to throw it behind the bar, adding some "fiery" sound effects.

"So your only logical explanation is that there isn't a logical explanation?" Wilson grabbed another fry from the plate in front of House and dipped it in ranch sauce.

"Drug induced psychosis is a logical explanation. It explains everything."

Wilson chuckled, "No it's not… It's no explanation. Your theory is that a person who does something like this has no reason behind his actions? It's just the drugs?"

"And your theory is the burning is a physical manifestation of the metaphorical burning of what went wrong in his life… There's always some deeper meaning…" House mocked.

"Isn't there always a deeper meaning?" Wilson asked curiously, "Even to drug use?"

"No" House paused and got up to his feet, "It's late. Let's get out of here." He said and threw a 10-dollar bill on the greasy counter.

Wilson nodded and followed his limping friend.

...

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" House asked, squinting at the sun filled dunes in front of him.

"Pretty sure, yeah…" Wilson threw one leg over the rented green and purple dirt bike. "Getting pretty good at riding, thought I'd enjoy the more extreme approach…"

House sighed, hopping on a red and white bike, "It's not extreme to say it's extreme, _Kyle_…"

"Don't care…" Wilson replied coolly, putting on a pair of aviator shades. "Let's do this…"

Wilson took off in a green and purple blur. House stayed back for a few moments, watching his friend maneuver through the sandy hills with hardly any skill or accuracy. Wilson had to stump his feet on the thin wobbly sand a few times in order to keep his balance.

House smiled, fired up the engine and began riding towards Wilson. Unlike his inexperienced friend, House knew how to handle a bike off road pretty well, a skill that probably saved his life many times in the past. Wilson watched in awe as the red blur zigzagged and zoomed through and over the sand dunes—creating patterns that made the sand hills look more like soft serve ice cream or fluffy clouds.

House's bike then stopped abruptly inches from Wilson's, throwing sand in all directions.

"You've done this before…" Wilson said dryly, shaking sand off his jacket.

"What? No! Never…" House joked, "Come on, I'll show you how to keep your balance…"

Wilson nodded and placed his helmet back on.  
The two spent the entire afternoon riding the dunes. At first Wilson was a bit wobbly, but with a few pointers from House, he managed to work out a way to keep his balance and keep the bike from tipping over. The key was mostly speed and feeling out your next move—a mix between speed, accuracy and fast thinking, sort of like walking a tightrope.

As the sun began to set, the dunes turned from light beige to deep red—lighting up like a fire against the purple and orange sky. And between the deep velvety clouds and the smooth dunes, it was hard to tell which way was up and which was down. It was almost like heaven and earth have collided—though Wilson wouldn't dare voicing that metaphor out loud in front of House.

"Had enough?" House asked, taking off his helmet and ruffling his newly formed helmet-hair.

Wilson took a deep breath, "Yeah…" He looked at House sincerely, "Thanks, it was fun."

House eyed Wilson, noticing his friend's breaths were beginning to sound tighter and shallower. He gave it a second to see if Wilson would say anything, but when he didn't House decided he wouldn't point it out either—it was probably just irritation from all the sand and dust.

They rode the dirt bikes back to the small rental shack and picked up their own bikes. Their motel was only 5 miles away, but half way through the ride, House noticed Wilson was lagging further and further behind. He pulled the brakes and waited on the side of the road for Wilson to catch up. He watched the other bike wobble slightly, as Wilson struggled to position himself.

"Why'd you stop?" Wilson asked when he finally caught up, his bike still roaring and ready to go.

"Get off the bike…" House ordered dryly.

"Wha…" Wilson croaked. It was only then he noticed how heavily he was leaning on the front of the bike.

House's blue eyes conveyed an emotion not short of heartbreak as he watched Wilson cough heavily for a moment before catching an incredibly shaky breath and crawling off the bike, one hand still hanging on to the handle.

Wilson closed his eyes for a moment, when he opened them; House's hand was extended toward him.

"Squeeze my hand…" House ordered. Wilson complied and said nothing—truth was he was kind of pissed off at his body's sudden lack of cooperation.

"Strong enough to ride on the back of mine… Hop on…" House climbed on his bike and waited for Wilson to follow, but the other man remained where he stood at the side of the road, eyeing his own bike.

"Fuck the bike Wilson… Lets go…"

But he didn't budge, and the increasing pallor of his face was beginning to worry House.

"WILSON!" House over annunciated each syllable to convey his urgency, "We'll call Triple-A and they'll get the damn bike… Now climb up here or I'll duct-tape you to the back…"

"I can ride it back…" Wilson argued.

"No you can't…" House painfully watched Wilson struggle with the reality of the situation.

Wilson bit his lip and filled his aching chest with as much fresh air as he possibly could. He then proceeded to kick the wheel of his own bike, and looking up to the now deep purple sky—he threw his middle finger to the air.

"Save it for someone who cares…" House interrupted, "Or for someone who actually exists…"

Wilson nodded, his face painted with obvious agitation. Still a bit out of breath, he climbed on the back of House's bike and they sped away.

...

"How many miles does it have on it?"

"A lot… It's a 40-year-old car…"

House circled the beat-up automobile—a 1970's Dodge Challenger, original parts, the original interior was ripped to shreds and the original two-tone black and orange paint job showed clear signs of age and rust.

"Does it run?" House asked the overweight old man named Earl. Earl had a barn chalked-full of classic and old junk cars, which he sold mostly to collectors. He was somewhat of a legend in the area, making a decent living off of the abandoned cars for over 50 years now.

Earl let out a pig-like snort, "Maybe... Haven't driven the damn thing in 30 years…"

"I'll take it." House decided, "How much?"

Earl wrote down the sum on a piece of paper.

"Hmm…" House growled, gesturing a "so-so" motion with his hand.

Earl shrugged, "That clown, D-bag, back there already gave me a good offer on the car, take it or leave it." He pointed to a skinny tattooed smiley young man who stood in the corner inspecting a 1967 Impala, obviously a collector and a regular customer.

House contemplated his next move, wishing he had his big tennis ball to swirl around and help him think.

"Think fast old man…" Earl warned, "I can see D-bag wrapping up back there and to be honest, I would much rather see the car go to you than him and his crap-sack monkey show."

"What?" House wasn't sure he was following Earl's colorful choice of words.

"D-bag back there is a regular customer of mine. He has one of those so called 'reality shows'… He buys cars from my garage, throws some shiny paint on them in front of the camera and then sells them to morons for 5 times more money than what he bought them for right here." Earl paused, rolling his eyes. "It has an entertainment value I guess, and I can't say no to him, pays my bills… But the whole practice just rubs me the wrong way…"

Earl looked back once more at the so-called "D-bag", who was now eying an old 1955 Porsche. Once again Earl let out a pig-like snort, and spit to the ground with an air of irritation to his action.

"Hey Earl…" House got the heavy-set man's attention, "Would you consider a trade?"

...

"Where've you been?" an incredibly disheveled Wilson asked as House crept back into the motel room.

"Good to have you back in the land of the living…" House smiled, signing Wilson to scooch-over so he can take a seat next to him on the couch.

"How long have I been out of it?" Wilson asked stretching and wrapping the throw around him more tightly.

"Three days… On and off…" House replied, inspecting Wilson carefully. He tried to reach to check Wilson's vitals but he quickly pulled away.

"It's okay… House…" Wilson said rather coldly, "It's fine… I'm a doctor too…" he lowered his gaze and let three deep coughs escape into the palm of his hand.

"You look like you're still running a fever and that cough…"

"House…" Wilson warned, "Stop hovering…"

House never thought it was even humanly possible to use the word "hovering" to describe him, but Wilson seemed keen on having his own space, so he complied and just nodded.

"I want to head down south…" Wilson said in a determined yet slightly shaky voice.

"Sounds like a plan…" House agreed.

"No…" Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated at just how sick he sounded, "I mean now… We wasted three days…"

"You're still too sick…"

"I'm sick ALL the time!" Wilson blurted.

"You know what I mean…" House tried to remain calm, "Just let your immune system pick up for a few more days and…"

"You don't get to decide! And stop hovering… This whole you taking care of me thing is getting too close for comfort…"

"Too close for comfort?" House snorted, "I changed your damn adult diaper during your little chemo escapade and this is too close for comfort?"

Wilson said nothing, but by the way he was clenching his fists and biting his lower lip, House could tell that little remark pissed his friend off.

"Too soon? That's too bad because I got some really sweet cancer jokes if you feel me being nice to you is too close to comfort…" House retorted.

Wilson shot up to his feet and stormed out of the room.

"Hey!" House limped after him, "Where' you going?"

"I need some air…" Wilson said with a great deal of urgency, "Where's my bike?"

"About that…" House tried to explain.

"Hou…James!" Wilson corrected himself, "Where did you park the damn bike?"

House knew there was no use in even trying to explain so he decided he would just show Wilson. "Come on…" He said and Wilson followed.

They walked for half a block down the main street of the small town, before taking a left into an industrial looking area. House pulled out a key and opened the lock on one of the many garage doors—revealing the fixed-up Dodge Challenger.

"What's this?" Wilson asked.

"Our new ride… I've been fixing her up while your cancer was giving you the middle finger."

House waited for Wilson to smile, laugh, scream—have any sort of reaction. But he didn't.

"Did your sense of humor shrink instead of your tumor?" He tried again. But when Wilson didn't react this time, House knew this idea wasn't going down well with Wilson.

"Where's my bike?" Wilson asked, his patience reaching its limit.

"I traded the bikes for the car…" House replied.

Wilson huffed in irritation, "You traded MY bike?"

"It's an awesome car!" House yelped defensively.

Wilson glared at House angrily, "You had no right…"

"It's a 1970's…"

"It was MY bike… My money!"

"Original engine…"

"It was MINE! You had no right to just give it away!"

"You can't ride the bike anymore, Wilson!" House finally spit out, putting an end to the storm.

Wilson seemed to have run out of words.

"Car is safer…" House continued, his gaze lowered to the ground, "Considering your…." He looked up and met Wilson's gaze, "Situation…"

"Yeah…" Wilson huffed ironically, "Situation…"

"So…" House growled, "Are we cool?"

Wilson thought for a moment, he then walked toward House and gave him the mother of all right-hooks straight to the cheekbone. House fell to the ground and looked up to his friend.

"Nice hook… Much improved since the last time you punched me…" House commented shakily as he nursed his right cheek.

Wilson caught his breath; "If you pull something like this without telling me one more time, I'll make sure next time I use an adult diaper it will somehow get dumped on your head…"

Wilson could see House's blue-eyes widen in shock.

"Relax it's a joke…" Wilson said as he walked away, "Where's your sense of tumor?"

House grabbed the side of the car and helped himself up to his feet, hiding his smile as Wilson walked away.

...

It was the middle of the night, and while House was fast asleep with an icepack on his bruised cheekbone, Wilson found himself wide-awake and in deep thought.

It was around 3am when the faint smell of smoke began to creep in the room. Wilson pulled himself to sitting position and looked out the window only to see the dancing flicker of what looked like flames.

Confused, and now very curious, Wilson got up, threw a sweatshirt on and stepped outside. He walked to the back of the motel row to where he knew the window was directed, and that's when he saw him.

"The arsonist…" Wilson mumbled under his breath. He couldn't believe his eyes; a young man, in his early 30's stood in front of him. He had a heavy beard for his age and moved very fast, but Wilson noticed something.

"Your pupils aren't dilated…"

The young man yelped and froze in his spot, W…what?" he choked; confused by the odd choice of words considering he was caught dead hand in the act.

"Your pupils…" Wilson came closer, "You're not on drugs…"

"So…?" The young man asked.

Wilson shrugged, "Nothing… My friend said that…" He sighed, "Forget it… Long story…"

The arsonist was in shock, and now extremely curious, when he noticed Wilson was rubbing his hands together in front of the fire he had created in the most casual of matters.

"Are you… okay, sir?" the arsonist asked.

"Me? Oh…" Wilson laughed when he realized what he was doing, "Yeah… Well, I mean, no not really, I have cancer…"

"I'm…Sorry…" The young man said, scratching his beard.

"It's fine… Well, it's not… My friend traded my bike for a car behind my back…"

"That's a crappy move…" The arsonist pointed out.

"No…" Wilson proceeded, "He's right, I can't ride it, I can barely breath on it…"

"I'm sorry…"

Wilson chuckled nervously, "Stop it…I wish everyone would stop being sorry"

The arsonist just looked back and forth between the fire and Wilson, at a complete loss of words.

"He's too nice to me…" Wilson said softly, now sitting on an empty tank of gas in front of the growing fire.

"Who?"

"My frie… my brother… James…" Wilson corrected, "He used to be an ass but now… He watches over me, he cares too much—he changed…"

"Change is good…"

Wilson nodded, staring into the flickering flames, "Yeah…" He snuck a cough into his fist, "I thought so too but…"

Wilson's trail of thought suddenly refocused.

"Why are you doing this?" He asked the arsonist.

The young bearded man shrugged, "Reasons…"

"So there is a reason?" Wilson pondered.

"Isn't there always?" The arsonist asked, "Is there a reason why you're out here talking to me in the middle of the night?" he retorted.

"I don't want my brother to change and be a better person… Only so he can fall apart after I die…" Wilson's voice saddened, "He would've been better off staying an ass, going to prison and not watching me die…"

"He's your brother… He loves you…"

Wilson chuckled, "No… You don't know him… Love is not a part of his game… loyalty maybe… Dependence? Habit perhaps… But no… He doesn't love."

The arsonist fidgeted in his spot before Wilson turned to face him again.

"I'm going to… I'm gonna have to call…" Wilson pulled a cell phone out of his pocket.

"Oh…" the arsonist nodded, "Yeah sure… I understand…"

Wilson took a few steps back, "I'll give you a 3 minute head start so…"

The arsonist nodded and licked his lips nervously.

"Thanks for listening…" Wilson added as he walked away and dialed 911.

...

_The infamous arsonist was caught in the early hours of the morning after lighting what seemed to be a small bonfire behind an Interstate 25 motel. It is not clear if his intentions were to light up a bigger fire as the 911 call was made anonymously and there were no other witnesses… _

"We're lucky…" House pointed out as he took a sip of coffee, making a face when he realized how bitter it was.

"Yup…" Wilson replied, "Is the car ready?"

"Good to go…" House said as he poured another sugar packet into the coffee mug, "Whenever you're ready… At least we know there's no chance of anyone burning us down on the way now…"

"Remind me again what we're the circumstances of your death?" Wilson asked dryly.

"Touché…" House said. He was glad to see Wilson's sense of irony and humor were back. "Well, I'm done here. Ready to roll?"

"Only if I drive…" Wilson said, grabbing his jacket.

"Come on… I've worked on this car, we've bonded—I deserve the first round…" House argued.

"We'll flip a coin for it…" Wilson said as the two stepped out of the diner, "Hey, did I tell you about the crazy dream I had last night?"

"Nope…"

"Well, I looked out the window and saw this red flickering light…"

That day Wilson decided, that no matter what will happen next, he was fine with House sticking by his side— he was now sure that House had his reasons.


	8. Chapter 8

**-Pt 8 -**

House and Wilson looked down at the car's engine.

"Oh great…" Wilson gave House the stink eye as the engine went up in smoke.

"I can fix it…"

"It's a lemon!"

"Shhh!" House placed his hands on opposite sides of the car as if it had ears, "You'll hurt her feelings!"

"It's a car!" Wilson gestured. "And I don't think we're going anywhere today…"

"Sure we are…" House folded his arms and limped around the vehicle, "I just need to clamp the pipe, crimp the wires and grease the wheel…" He said with an air of authority.

"You have no idea what you're doing and you're just calling out masturbation metaphors, aren't you?" Wilson assessed.

"Shift gears… Perform diagnostics on my man tool..." House continued, completely ignoring Wilson's observation.

"Ok! I get it…you're very funny…" Wilson pulled an orange pill bottle out of his pocket and twisted the cap; "You can use that material when you go on your standup tour…" he finally managed to open the bottle and threw three pills into his mouth.

"You know my best material is saved especially for you…" House joked, "And gimme…" He stretched his hand in front of Wilson and eyed the pill bottle.

"Can't…" Wilson shook the bottle, "Empty."

House's hand comically dropped to his sides, "Fine. There's more in the bag, right?"

"Should be…" Wilson ran a finger through his hair, "We need more weed though…"

To that, House couldn't even suppress his smile. Since their trip begun, Wilson has slowly allowed himself to develop into a full-fledged drug addict in his own right—a fact that amused House to no end. He limped to the trunk of the car and pulled out several duffle bags, "Come help…" he called Wilson, "There's a motel down the road. We can call someone to get the car from there."

…

The key twisted and clicked the lock open. House pushed the door with his cane and limped into the motel room. Wilson peeked through the door, not daring to set foot in the room just yet.

House surveyed the area, finally focusing on the ceiling fan and tapped it with his cane—causing a downpour of dust and god knows what else. House squinted, pressing his arm into his nose and mouth; he shielded his face from the dust, "See?" He turned to the door to face Wilson— the jacket sleeve muffling his voice, "Told you it's not that bad."

"Yeah…" Wilson coughed and flailed one arm in the air to detour the dust away, "This is lovely… "

House ignored. He was already piling bags into one of the rickety single beds, pulling the zippers open and searching the contents of every bag.

"Aha!" House exclaimed—Proudly holding up the orange pill bottle. "Did you miss daddy?" He asked the bottle tenderly as he popped open the cap, "Because daddy missed you."

Wilson rolled his eyes, "Those are mine, you know…" he refreshed House's memory by letting a rough cough escape. "You're just their weird uncle… "

House dry swallowed two of the pills. "Since when are you so protective over your drugs?" he observed. He looked down and read the label on the pill bottle, then looked back at Wilson. "This prescription is not under your real name like the others…"

Wilson walked into the room and grabbed the bottle from House. He twisted it in his hand, scratched the back of his neck and sighed—which turned into a cough.

"You've been prescribing drugs as James Wilson to Kyle Callaway?" House asked—His face expressing a mixture of shock, pride and slight amusement.

Wilson didn't answer. Instead, he twisted the cap open and grabbed two more pills.

"Wow…" House grabbed Wilson's hand, "What the hell are you doing? You just took three…"

"House…" Wilson hissed through his teeth, his chest rising up and down heavily. House took the hint and let Wilson finish the deed.

"It's the only thing that suppresses my cough…" Wilson offered an explanation after he swallowed the pills. His voice was strained and hoarse.

House rolled his tongue nervously. Wilson was basically double prescribing at this point. Now, on any given day this would actually be kind of clever and cool—something to be proud of. But House was also trying to wrap his head around the fact that Wilson was doing such a thing simply because he couldn't stand the pain anymore. And that thought was simply devastating.

Finally Wilson broke the silence with a laugh-cough hybrid. "See?" He raised both his eyebrows and threw one arm to the air gesturing in House's direction. "This is why I didn't tell you. This…" Wilson searched for the correct words, "This silence and the puppy dog eyes!"

"I don't have puppy dog eyes…" House growled, obviously upset.

Wilson huffed and shook his head, "I didn't want you to get worried…"

House shrugged, "I'm not. You're sick… you need pills… I'm a sort of doctor too you know…" he reasoned.

Wilson nodded in agreement.

"Look…" House made his way to the door, "We should probably get you out of this dust trap… Lets go hang out somewhere and hope they can get the car fixed by the end of the day."

Wilson knew House was still bothered. But since his older friend was already ignoring the issue, Wilson was more than willing to go along with it. "Sounds like a plan…"

…

"A week!?" Wilson's eyes widened as he turned to face House, "You can't let them keep the car here for a week…"

"You heard the man…" House pointed to the mechanic behind the counter, "Rare parts… engine blew up… blah blah blah…"

Wilson exhaled through his nose; he looked like a dragon, about to implode his wrath upon a small village.

"It's not a big deal…" House slurred. He regretted his choice of words as soon as he met Wilson's gaze again.

"Oh sure it's not…" Wilson spat dryly, "I mean… It's not like we're on a clock or something…"

"You're not going to die this week, _Kyle_…" House sneered. The mechanic behind the counter chuckled at the joke, obviously oblivious to the fact that House actually meant, "dying" and not just the metaphorical kind.

"Look guys…" the mechanic didn't want any fights, "The parts might get here early. I'll try to move things along and I'll call you if I get any news… "

He looked at the "brothers," who still both looked rather grumpy and dissatisfied. "In the meantime…" He broke the silence nervously, "Why don't you go check out the local attractions?"

"You mean the roach motel and your famous flea circus?" House asked.

The mechanic let out a nervous laugh, "Nah… I mean, go check out the plantation. It's haunted."

House and Wilson exchanged unexcited looks.

"They have a restaurant attached and half priced drinks during happy hour." The mechanic attempted to sweeten the pot.

"I could go for a drink…" House shrugged, looking for Wilson's approval.

"We're not taking a ghost tour just so you can laugh at poor innocent tourists…"

"Buzzkill…"

…

The trees surrounding the plantation grounds gave it an eerie feeling. Each branch was slumped downward and carried long leaves that gave the trees a ghostly appearance.

House gave Wilson a look.

"What?" Wilson asked, fidgeting slightly.

"Nothing…" House replied coldly, "I just wanted to see if you're scared."

Wilson laughed, "Scared? No. Why, are you?" He deflected.

"C'mon, You should know I don't believe in ghosts…"

Wilson laughed.

"What?!" House asked. He couldn't suppress his smile. It was nice walking around the plantation with Wilson, seeing him laugh.

"Nothing I…" Wilson rubbed his eye and suppressed another cough-chuckle, "I was just thinking it would be cool to prove you wrong and haunt you when I…" He gave House a quick glance, "Well, you know…"

House nodded, "Yeah… I know…" he growled, but after a beat, the thought actually managed to put a smile back on his face, "You would be a horrible ghost…"

"No… Are you serious?" Wilson's voice went higher in pitch. "I would scare you to death! I would make an excellent haunting-ghost!"

"You'd blow your cover in a second…You wouldn't be able to stop yourself from hiding my Vicodin and whispering judgmental mind shrinking advice in my ear instead of eerie messages from the beyond… I'd know it was you, and you…" House gestured toward Wilson, "You're about as scary as Casper, the friendly ghost…"

They both snickered at the thought, exchanging bittersweet glances.

"Well, someone needs to look after you…" Wilson said, staring at the ground.

"Yeah…" House pulled a cigar out of his jacket pocket and lit it up; "Because I'm such a delicate flower…" he took a puff from it, carefully exhaling the smoke away from Wilson.

"Come on… " Wilson let out a chain of coughs into his fist, "That's not what I meant…"

House growled, he might've said something, but whatever it was probably wasn't meant for Wilson's ears.

"Look…" Wilson searched for the right words, "I think I might owe you an apology…"

House raised an eyebrow.

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, "I might've said something along the lines of me not being responsible for your happiness back at PPTH…"

"You're not…" House shrugged.

"Here's the thing though, that was… Not the right thing to say. I am responsible for you, as you are for me…" Wilson exhaled, "And I think I owe you an apology for sometimes remembering that too late."

House said nothing. He wasn't very good with this whole touchy feely business. Wilson was aware of that, so he continued.

"We're friends, House…" Wilson toyed with that thought for a moment, "Screw it, we're more than friends— I mean the length you would go for me…"

"Oh god, don't…" House rolled his eyes theatrically, "Why are you being like this? Why now?"

Wilson's jaw slacked, "I… eh… I thought it would be nice to express my gratitude…"

"Oh, suck on it…" House grumbled, "Remember I told you I don't want to talk to you about the future? Well, I thought it was sort of implied; the past is off limits too." House took another puff from his cigar before tossing it to the ground and kicking it rather angrily with his good leg.

"You want to dwell on the past? Talk about our friendship?"

Wilson fidgeted, slightly taken aback by the un-Housian offer. "Yeah, that would be a nice change of pace…"

House snorted, "Fine, so friend, tell me, how come you never came to visit me when I was in prison?"

Wilson's mind went blank. He finally settled on what he knew was hardly a good enough answer; "You broke my wrist, you fled the country, I was angry."

House barked a sarcastic, "Oh" sound as he scratched the stubble on his chin and sat on the nearest bench, looking up at Wilson. "So, you got a booboo on your arm, and when you heard I was back, on trial and on my way to prison… You didn't think that might be a good time to put those differences aside and come see me… as a _friend_?"

"You did something insane!"

"Me being insane is old news!" House snarled, "I paid the price. A price I _shouldn't_ have paid and one _you _should've stopped me from paying!"

"What?" Wilson squinted, "Stop you?" He chuckled, "House, you're not a four year old who's been naughty, you're a grown man."

"Yes. A grown man you call your friend. You should've been there telling me that not getting a lawyer was crazy, you should've told me I was being stupid and that I was just trying to punish myself…" House watched Wilson turn around and let out a few coughs before he turned back to reply.

"You obviously gave this some thought…" Wilson observed, now taking a seat next to House on the bench, "Why did you need me to tell you what you already knew?"

House looked down at his shoes. This conversation was going against every instinct he had in his old body. But there was no turning back now.

"Because if my best friend didn't think I was worth saving then I didn't either…"

House never spoke of his time in prison with Wilson—over a year of his life that he never shared with his best friend. Wilson always assumed it was because House was just being himself, refusing to speak of an emotional time. He never spoke of his childhood much for similar reasons. But the simple fact was House never told Wilson about prison not because he couldn't bear the thought of it—He never told because he thought Wilson didn't care.

"I…" Wilson was in shock; House's words felt like a punch to the chest. "House I, I never even thought that… I mean… you disappeared for three months… And when you came back… I just didn't think you wanted anything to do with any of us…"

"Yeah well so did I…" House croaked, "I just didn't think you would let me do that…"

Wilson bit his lip, rolling in his head the words House had just said, "Why now?"

"What?"

"Why are you telling me this, just now?" Wilson repeated.

House shrugged, "I thought we were 'sharing'..." he barked sarcastically.

"You never willingly share this kind of personal information... I apologized and instead of making fun of me you felt the need to confront me about this. So, I ask again, why now?"

"I was just thinking…" House, uncharacteristically, played nervously with the cuff of his jacket, "The day I 'died' in that burning building… I told myself, well I actually told Cameron but she was in my subconscious so…" House looked up at Wilson, "You get the picture…"

"Yes. Please continue." Wilson replied dryly, as if House hallucinating his fellows was the most natural occurrence in the world.

"I told myself I could change."

Wilson chuckled. "You?" He pointed at House, "The guy who coined the term 'people don't change'?"

"Hey just because I liked Pepsi before, it doesn't mean I can't try a damn coke…"

"It does if you endorsed it!" Wilson pointed out, "You lived by those premises; people don't change, everybody lies…"

"And look how well that worked out…"

"So…" Wilson was beginning to put the pieces of this House-puzzle together. "By telling me something that has been bothering you in our relationship… You're practicing?" He looked up at House cautiously for approval.

"Yeah… I guess you could say that." House replied after a beat.

Wilson smiled, "That's kind of sweet…" he teased.

"Please don't say that…"

"Fine... But for what it's worth House…" Wilson still wore a slight smile, "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, you know… In prison… Things were weird then… and…"

"I don't care." House stopped Wilson from gushing. Sure, he wanted to change, but he was still House—which means he didn't give a crap about an apology. "Lets go drink these stupid feelings away!"

And off he went—pretty fast for a cripple.

Wilson nodded. If this was all the talk House could handle for today that was fine. Baby steps.

…

"So are you two the hippie TV ghost hunter type?" The gritty bartender who went by the name of Jackson asked.

House and Wilson exchanged looks.

"What the hell would make you think that?" House asked, downing his scotch.

"We don't get much traffic around here aside from the curious hippie believer kind. Plus pretty boy in the leather jacket fits the bill appearance-wise." Jackson nodded towards Wilson.

Wilson fidgeted, looking down nervously at his jacket.

"Don't be fooled by the fantastic hair and the pretend-tough but actually innocent exterior…" House growled, handing Jackson an empty glass, "My brother Kyle here and I are actually ghost hunter hunters… Here to put an end to the plague of hipster morons."

Apparently House's unique blend of humor didn't sit well with the Southern bartender because he quickly turned his head to Wilson.

"Is your brother always like that?"

Wilson sighed, "Tragically so…" but he made sure to throw House a small glance of approval.

At that very moment, House's phone beeped. He flipped the pre-paid device open. "It's about the Challenger…" House frowned, "We need to get down to the garage."

Wilson rolled his eyes, "Why you love this horrible lemon of a car so much is a mystery to me…" he got up from his seat. "I'm going to the bathroom; meet you next to the rental… You know… the car that actually works and doesn't smell like twenty year old motor oil."

House nodded. "See ya Jackson! And if one of those ghost hunters turns up dead, you know where to find me." He threw a 20-dollar bill on the counter. "Oh wait… No you don't…"

Jackson wiped down the counter and watched James Callaway limp after his brother. "Strange gimp…"

…

"Come on, Wilson…" House looked at his watch, pacing back and forth in front of the rented Honda Accord. "Lame car…" he thought to himself, twisting the key in his hand. He leaned up against the hood and rubbed his thigh. Where was Wilson? And more importantly, where was his jacket—which contained the Vicodin?

Finally House decided he had enough of waiting. He pulled out his cell-phone.

-DID THE HAUNTED TOILET ZOMBIES GET YOU? - He texted and pressed the send button.

But 5 minutes later House still found himself standing next to the car, alone—so he decided to take a stroll down to the restroom. "Lovely night for a walk…"

He peeked his head inside. No Wilson, so he was either not there or in one of the stalls.

"Hey Kyle!" House hollered, making sure whatever and whoever was in that restroom would be startled into answering.

"In here…" House heard Wilson's slightly stuffed up voice reply from the furthest stall.

"You okay?" House questioned.

"I'm fine…" Wilson coughed, "Too much booze and Vicodin."

"Well I should know…" House retorted, but he wasn't buying it.

"Can I share more touchy feely stuff with you while you're in there?" He barked at Wilson's stall as he quietly dug through the contents of the public restroom's trashcan.

He heard Wilson let out a string of screeching painful coughs, "Hardly seems like the right time…" he choked.

"I always wanted a little brother when I was a kid…" House ignored, "You know, someone to help me stick it to the man… the man, being my dad, that is…"

"That's very sweet, _James_… Not now…" Wilson croaked. He leaned against the wall, wiping his brow.

"The thing is…" House continued, now elbow deep into the trashcan. "I kind of realized that was a crappy idea because if I had a brother it would be John's kid…"

House heard Wilson let out another cringe-worthy cough. He kicked the trashcan, letting its contents scatter all over the bathroom floor.

"What was that?" Wilson asked hoarsely.

"Silly me…" House chirped innocently, "So clumsy… I tripped over the trash can with my bad leg…"

"Oh…" Wilson slurred suspiciously.

"Anyway…" House focused at the floor as he lightly kicked the scattered tissues around, "Whenever I was sad or lonely, wishing for a brother… I always told myself that I was better off…" House's vision zoomed on a specific object on the ground as he bent to pick it up.

"Why was that?" Wilson asked, finally succumbing to his most basic instinct—to care.

"Because…" House examined the piece of issue in his hand, "If I had a little brother and my father or anybody or anything in this world would hurt him, the way I got hurt…"

Wilson's heart flipped in his chest at the sound of those words.

"I wouldn't be able to live with that."

Wilson felt a slight lump in his throat.

"So on that lovely note… tell me…" House continued, "How long have you been spewing blood?"

Wilson looked at the gap between the door and the floor. House's navy-blue sneaker peaked from under the stall and kicked a single sheet of blood stained tissue in Wilson's direction.

The space went silent except for a few small leftover coughs. Finally, the bathroom stall opened and a very pale looking Wilson took a few woozy steps and faced House.

"Hey Casper…"

"Hi…" Wilson nodded and composed himself. He looked down and saw the scattered tissues all over the floor, "You made a mess…"

"I was playing Clue…" House retorted, "But it appears Mrs. Peacock wasn't killed in the bathroom with a candlestick…"

"Uh…" Wilson mused, "Pity…" he then slowly bent over and began to pick up the mess around them.

House rolled his eyes. Of course Wilson wouldn't leave this mess behind. He reluctantly picked up a wad of used tissues and threw them back in the garbage.

"Two weeks ago…" Wilson suddenly declared.

House froze.

"I knew it was getting worst that day you traded the bikes for that god awful car… I woke up the next morning… coughing my damn lungs off…"

House winced at the thought.

"I couldn't stop…" Wilson continued, "I just… it was like I was in limbo or something… And I couldn't catch my breath…"

"That's why you've been downing the Vicodin…"

"Yes." Wilson confirmed.

House had that look on his face. It made Wilson nervous. It was the same look he wore when one of his patients was at death's door, right before he would have an epiphany and all would be good in the world—the puzzle would be solved.

But no epiphany in the world could stop this Cancer. And they both knew that.

"House?" Wilson murmured, "Please say something."

House held his breath, "Well congratulations, Asshat…" he snapped at Wilson, "Your cancer has probably spread to your lungs… Mazal tov!" he spat venomously before limping away.

…

Wilson sat on the bench outside of the garage, patiently waiting for House to step outside. They haven't spoken at all on the way there. It was obvious House wasn't ready to deal with the emotional implications of Wilson's most recent cancer hurdle—which was perfectly fine because Wilson had no clue what he should say.

He could see through the glass doors House nodding as the mechanic spoke to him—he did not look pleased.

Finally, House pushed the glass door with his cane and sat next to Wilson.

"Well?" Wilson inquired.

"Engine blew up, cannot be salvaged. She needs new breaks and even then, there's the oil leak and the suspension is shot…" House looked at Wilson with wide blue eyes, "Need I say more?"

"I think I got it." Wilson nodded. "So what are you going to do?"

House sighed, "We can keep the rental for as long as we need… or sign a lease." He shuddered at the thought.

Wilson looked into the distance. "Can I ask you something?"

"Can't stop you." House shrugged.

"Was that story you told me about when you we're a kid true?"

"I talked so you wouldn't hear me digging through the trash…"

"I know why you did it…" Wilson interrupted, "But was it true?"

House tapped his fingers on his cane nervously.

"I mean the part about you not wanting a brother because you knew your dad would…" Wilson found the next part hard to voice out, "…hurt him… like he did to you…"

House met Wilson's gaze and said nothing. He didn't need to. By this point in their friendship House could speak volumes to Wilson with just one look. So he did—and for the first time in their years of friendship, House revealed to Wilson a huge part of what made him who he was. A whole story without a word being spoken. It was true.

"Fix the car…" Wilson suddenly exclaimed.

"It will cost a fortune to get it running, _Kyle_…" House rationalized.

"But it's possible, right?" Wilson's eyes widened, "and you love that car!"

"You said it yourself, it's a lemon…"

Wilson shrugged, "Who cares? We're lemons! You're a cripple, I'm dying…"

"It's just a car…"

"But it's _your_ car!" Wilson spat, "It _can _be fixed!"

House sighed, throwing Wilson a final "Are you sure?" look. To which Wilson just replied with a head nod towards the glass doors where the Challenger stood.

"Besides…" Wilson barked as House limped away, "We would just look stupid driving a Honda Accord…"

House turned back his head and smiled, "You're a pretty good brother, Kyle…"

"So are you, James…"


	9. Chapter 9

**-Pt 9 -**

"Okay here are your choices…" House placed three plastic cups filled with differently colored concoctions on the coffee table. "This one…" House pointed to the one furthest to the left, "…contains a healthy cocktail of Oxy, some over-the-counter Guaifenesin and red wine I got from the dollar store…"

"And this one…" House pointed to the one furthest to the right, "Is what I like to call, 'The Nanner-Napper'… a hearty mix of Vicodin, Banana flavored kiddy cough syrup and a splash of brandy… It will most likely knock you out nicely…"

"But this one…" House shiftily pointed to the middle cup, "Is my personal favorite… I call it, 'The Green Monster'…"

A baggy-eyed and tired looking Wilson leaned forward and inspected the sickly green colored contents in the middle cup. "What's in it?"

"I'm glad you asked!" House chirped, "But I can't tell you…"

"Why is it so… green?" Wilson coughed.

"I can name three of the ingredients but that's it. So don't ask me for the rest of them! One, Nyquil…"

"Explains the green…" Wilson shrugged tiredly.

"Two, hemp oil…"

"Huh…" Wilson observed, "Two greens…"

"And… Mint Julep…because we're down south…"

"That's it?" Wilson interjected, "You're only going to name the harmless ingredients?"

"My secret recipe…" House boasted, "I modified it a bit and switched the usual bourbon with the Julep… but that's all I can tell you…"

Wilson eyed House suspiciously, "This isn't going to kill me…right House?"

"It won't…I promise…" House cooed innocently, "So which one?" He gestured to all three cups.

"And you're not going to tell me what the rest of the ingredients are for the green one?"

"No way…" House shook his head, "But I can tell you that the only two times I ever drank a Green Monster were; one, the time I had that really bad flu…"

Wilson chuckled, "I remember that… You watched the same episode of SpongeBob off your DVR like ten times in a row and you were still laughing hysterically at the TV…"

"And the second time…" House continued, "Was that day when I made that giant portrait of Cuddy's tata's at that half-off banner place and hung it in the Doctors lounge… Which resulted in her sentencing me to a whole day in the clinic…"

"Oh, yeah…" Wilson pondered, "Wasn't that the day you got those really bad heart palpitations and you were all shaky and got the sweats and Cuddy ordered you to go home?"

"Green Monster." House said proudly.

"Huh… So the two times you ever drank this… thing… resulted in two completely different adverse effects each time…" Wilson followed.

"Yes." House nodded, "The monster does not give you the result you want… It gives you the result you need!"

"How very magical…"

"Just call me Professor Dumbledore…"

"More like Snape…" Wilson then carefully inspecting the three cups one last time—sniffing and swirling them like fine wine as House watched with a satisfied mischievous grin.

"What the hell…" Wilson finally picked the middle cup, "I'm going to die anyway, right?"

"That's the spirit!" House jumped in his seat, "Vive le monstre vert!"

Wilson gave House one of those _"What the hell is wrong with you?"_ looks before he picked up the cup and downed its content.

"Ahh!" Wilson's eyes watered as he slammed the cup back down on the coffee table, "It burns!"

"That means it's working!" House assured.

"House…" Wilson squinted and grasped his chest; "I have an ever-growing tumor in my chest… You really think heartburn is…"

But just then Wilson felt the burning sensation dissolve—leaving behind nothing but sweet minty warmth.

"Huh…" Wilson's features relaxed, "Not bad…" he slumped back on the sofa.

"I told you…"

"The mint julep was a nice touch…"

"Duly noted…" House watched his best friend ease into a blissful state of relaxation—It wasn't long before he was nuzzled into the couch, snoring peacefully.

"Well... My work here is done…" House theatrically placed his hand on Wilson's shoulder, "Sleep tight oh sickly brother of mine… I've got business to attend to…" he balanced himself up from his seat and grabbed a cup from the table, "Shame to let a good Nanner-Napper go to waste… I'll take you 'to-go'…"

…

"Hey Callaway!" The mechanic House had come to know as Roger for the past week greeted him as he pushed through the glass doors.

"How's my car?" House asked as he inspected the orange challenger from all angles.

"I've got the new engine put in today, she roars like a kitten…"

"You mean purrs…" House corrected.

Roger chuckled, "Nah…" He stepped into the car. "Check this out…"

The key twisted and the engine indeed made a sound that could only be described as a roar—much to House's content.

"Sounds good!" He called over the sound of the engine.

"I knew you'd like it…" Roger twisted the key back and stepped out of the car, smiling ear to ear.

"So…" House pulled the keys for the Honda out of his pocket and jangled them in front of Rogers face, "When do you think I can give these back to you and get mine?"

Roger scratched his arm and once again let out that nervous chuckle that House so dreaded. "I totally want to, James… Here's the thing though…"

"Oh no…" House rolled his eyes, "Come on, Roger! We agreed—no more fixes!"

"I know! I know…" Roger's arms flew in the air, "It's just that… It's an old car and things keep popping up!"

House sighed, "How much?"

"$900…"

"Damn it Roger!" House stumped his foot a little harder then he had planned, "And how long?"

Roger fidgeted, "Another day… maybe by the end of the day even… two at the most! I promise and then she's good to go!"

House rubbed his temples and leaned against the wall. If he had known what a pain in the ass Roger was going to be, he would've brought his cane along.

"Hey, where's your brother?" Roger asked, "I mean, if Kyle were here he would've told you to just get it done with…"

"Well, Roger…" House seriously felt like he was getting a headache. Whether it was the Nanner-Napper's creeping effects, the lack of cane, Roger's insufferable nitpicking at the car or House's short attention span towards being social—it wasn't even relevant— but either one seemed plausible. "Kyle's not here… So you see how I might be hesitant to ripping you a $900 check from his checkbook…"

Roger nodded, "I hear ya, James, I really do… But hey, don't you have your own money…" he looked down at House's bad leg, "like a disability check or something?"

"Okay…" House snapped, rummaging through his pockets, "I think I've had enough of you for today…" he pulled out the antique silver money clip that belonged to Wilson, "Take this…" He slapped nine crisp one hundred dollar bills in Roger's hand, "And make sure this will do so I won't have to ever see you again, you got it?"

Roger smiled, "Good deal, Callaway…"

House nodded, shooting Roger one last warning glare before he limped away.

"Hey, tell Kyle I said Hi, okay?"

…

House sat on the park bench. He rotated his flat-cap—shielding his eyes from the glaring sun. It was getting late and his guy was a no show.

He flipped his pre-paid phone open and dialed the number.

"_Yo, this is Damien. Can't get to the phone right now, leave a shout out and I'll hit you back!" —BEEP!_

"Hey, Damien… James here. Let's just make a few things clear, shall we? You're a 20-year-old white college kid… The fact that you chose to engage in an activity that allows you to interact with people who look the part and therefore 'talk the talk' sort of speak, does not mean that you—scrawny little white boy, should 'talk the talk'… You're losing clients here Damien… mostly middle aged men who just want their product delivered on time without any interest in being called, 'Dog' or 'Homie'… So I'm going to make this very clear… I will NOT be leaving you a 'shout out' and next time I hear you say you'll 'hit me back' I will take that message as literally as I possibly can, being the old fart that I am, and I will call the cops and inform them of your intent to 'hit back' the ol' cripple…"

House lifted his head. In the distance, he finally saw Damien, hobbling with his baggy pants toward the bench.

"Oh look…here you come right now. Peace, homes!" he clamped the phone shut.

"Damien!" House lifted his head and squinted at the young man, "I just left you a message…"

"Sorry I'm late…" Damien pulled up his beltless baggy pants and sat next to House, "My math teacher is a hard ass…"

"I don't care Damien… We already established I am not 'pretty cool for an old dude' despite the fact that I enjoy your product, didn't we?"

Damien pulled his beanie off and scratched his head, "Yeah…" he whined, "I still think you didn't have to hit me so hard with your cane though… I was just trying to be nice."

"Never hug me." House said coldly.

"Well I know that _now_!" Damien croaked.

"And, as you will soon find out when you listen to your voice mail, don't be late when you set a time with me either…"

Damien gulped nervously and looked around to see if House had his cane nearby. He somewhat relaxed when he realized he did not.

"Jeez Callaway… I mean, you're always a douchebag… but today… today you're just extra douchy…" Damien looked around and behind the bench, "Where's your baby bro today?"

"Kyle couldn't come, but he'd be really happy to get his weed, so if you could cut to the chase…" House urged, throwing glances toward his pocket where the silver money clip was peaking out.

"Oh!" Damien stuck both hands into the deep pockets of his oversized hoodie, "Yeah man, about that…"

House leaned back on the bench and folded his arms, "So it's one of these days, isn't it…" he commented to himself.

"I'm a little short on the stuff you guys usually get… but I can hook you up with some _other_ stuff…" Damien whispered—putting an obnoxiously obvious emphasis on the word "other".

"What _other _stuff?" House echoed, equally as obnoxious.

Damien pulled a small bag out of his giant pocket and slid it in House's direction.

House picked up the bag and gave it a quick glance. After which he opened it and spilled a tiny amount of the substance to the palm of his hand.

"Hey! No free samples!" Damien blurted.

But House already beat him to it. He pulled his nose and hacked loudly, snorting his share of the "free sample".

"Fuck man!" Damien barked, "Hey, you smoke it, you buy it—you got it?" He pointed his finger dangerously close to House's face.

House stared at the rouge finger in front of him, "Sorry…" He said, carefully moving the finger away, "But we don't do Cocaine…"

Damien snorted, "Are you kidding me!? You just took a…"

"Oh! That was…" House smiled a "silly me" kind of smile, "I thought that was powdered creamer for my coffee…" He lifted the paper cup next to him and took a sip, "That was very nice of you by the way…"

"You snorted it up your nose!" Damien squealed.

"And it was delicious!" House took another sip of his coffee then placed it back on the bench.

"Look man…" Damien grabbed back the now open bag and shoved it down his pocket, "I don't know it you're cranky today because that cane of yours is shoved up your ass or what… But I've been good to you and your bro for the past two weeks! So do you want the stuff or not?"

House shook his head, "Kyle doesn't do coke…"

Damien nodded, "Fine." He got up from the bench, making no attempt to hide his discontent.

"Tell Kyle I said hi…" he spat before blending into the park crowd.

…

House drove down the main road of the small town contemplating his next move. He could go back to the motel. But Wilson will most likely still be asleep and he wasn't in a "keep it down" kind of mood.

He could go get them both something to eat from Jackson's bar—but that he could also do later.

What did he want to do? Most of this crazy misfortunate trip has been about Wilson—Things Wilson wanted to do, places Wilson wanted to see… But now House was faced with a daunting thought—what would he do without Wilson?

…

"For 500 I can do this…" An extremely attractive, partially dressed redhead exhibited an "intriguing" set of skills.

House, impressed, nodded in acceptance.

"But…" The girl continued before House could pull out the cash, "For 800…I'll do this…"

House's eyes widened as the redhead took to the air, hanging from nothing but a chain demonstrating acts of flexibility that could only be matched by an Olympic gymnast.

"Sold" House nodded, reaching for his belt.

"Hold it!" The redhead brushed House's hand away from the buckle. "First you pay… Then you play…"

"You don't play around, do you?" He smiled back at her as she seductively kept her hand dangerously close to his crotch.

"Mm…mm…" She purred and shook her head.

House dug into his jacket pocket, his smile slowly turning into a frown. "Damn it!" He hissed—anxiously moving along to his other pockets. He rummaged through his jacket, his jeans and even looked down to his socks.

"Where's my money clip?" He finally snapped, circling around the redhead like a bloodhound.

"What are you talking about?"

"A money clip!" House blurted, "Polished silver antique looking thing with wads of cash in it!"

"I haven't seen it!" The redhead yelped defensively, "Why don't you check over there?" She gestured to the pile of beer bottles that stood in the corner of the abandoned refinery.

"Why would it be over there?" House croaked.

The redhead shrugged— she was getting pretty rattled up herself. "I don't know! You look kind of drunk… you might've dropped it on your way in!"

"Right!" House accepted the argument and began throwing empty bottles in every single direction.

"Hey watch it!" The redhead warned him as she avoided one of the bottles.

"You don't understand…" House now moved on to a different pile, "It's not mine, it belongs to my brother, Kyle!"

"Wait…" she scratched her head, "What did you say your name was?"

"Callaway."

The redhead smiled, "Your brother is Kyle Callaway?"

Hearing the cheer in her voice, House froze. "You know Kyle?"

"Yeah!" Her whole demeanor suddenly changed, and she looked almost too innocent to touch. "I met him last week at Garrison's Diner! He…" She giggled, " He bought me a milkshake and helped me with my math homework…"

House rolled his eyes, "What is it with college kids and honorable professions in this town?"

"I'm sorry you lost your money…" The redhead said sweetly.

"Yeah well… It's not your fault…" House fidgeted. He was feeling jumpy. Probably because of the cocaine—and then it hit him.

"Cocaine…"

Light bulb.  
He was sitting on the park bench. He remembered Damien reaching into his deep pockets and pulling out the dime bag of white powder. He remembered inspecting the bag and sampling the product. And finally, he recalled the split second when Damien reached to collect back his dime bag and shoved it back into his deep pocket.

The redhead watched House's eyes widen. "Are you okay?" she raised an eyebrow.

"That son of a bitch…" House growled. He didn't offer an explanation or exchange any more words with the redhead as he hurried to the refinery exit.

"Hey!" The redhead, college student/prostitute called after him, "Tell Kyle I said hi!"

…

House limped as fast as he could down the back alley and back into the main street, he flipped his cell open and dialed Damien's number.

"_Yo, this is Damien. Can't get to the phone right now, leave a shout out and I'll hit you back!" —BEEP!_

"You've got something that's mine you insufferable toy gangster!" House supported his bad leg with his free hand as he zigzagged to avoid hitting other pedestrians.

"Hey watch it!" a random kid on a skateboard hollered as House nearly knocked him down to the road.

"I'm on my way to see you right now and you better not disappear before I get the—Ah!" The cheap pre-paid cell phone fell to the ground and broke into two pieces. House clutched his thigh—the pain now kicking back with a vengeance.

"Are you okay, sir?" a child's voice asked—probably that punk who was riding the skateboard on the sidewalk.

House's eyes were clamped shut as he dealt with the pain.

"Do you want me to call 911?" the voice questioned.

"Do me a favor, kid…" House groaned, still keeping his eyes closed, "See that Honda over there?"

"What's a Honda?"

House sighed irritably. "Ugly white car parked half a block away…"

The kid stretched his neck, "Yeah. I see it!" He squealed excitingly.

"Good…" House attempted to regulate his breathing, "The back window is open… You're small enough to reach in there and grab the cane from the back seat."

"That's stealing…" The boy hesitated.

"It's not stealing if it's my car!"

The kid looked at House skeptically.

"Come on kid! Cane! Cripple!" House snapped—pointing to his bad leg.

"My mom says you can't take stuff that ain't yours… Or the police will get ya…" the kid argued.

"Kid…" House hissed, "Did your mom tell you something about helping a person in need?"

"No, but she did tell me not to talk to strangers!" the boy recited.

"Then why did you talk to me in the first place!?" This was beginning to get extremely frustrating for House.

The child watched House's jaw clench in pain as he let out a small yelp.

"Because you have cool shoes." he finally confessed.

House's thoughts snapped into place. The question was more hypothetical and he wasn't expecting an answer—let alone _that_ answer.

"Because you like my shoes?" House repeated— making sure the pain wasn't making him hear things.

"Yeah." The child smiled looking down to the gray and neon yellow sneakers, "They're cool."

Since House was sitting on the ground he was pretty much at eye level with the brat. "Do you want them?" He asked.

The child nodded.

"They're not even your size!" House couldn't help but to point out.

The boy shrugged.

House huffed angrily, "Will you go get the cane from the car if I give you my shoes?"

A smile began to creep back unto the boy's face.

…

Barefoot and cane in tow, House dragged himself as quickly as he could down the park, which was still buzzing with afternoon activity. He swung to the left, making a turn at the duck pond and continued to hobble until he reached the library building. He scanned the area, finally zooming on an old bench at the side of the building where there was more shade and significantly less foot traffic.

"Where is it?"

Damien looked up and identified the owner of the gravelly voice.

"I got your messages, Callaway…" Damien squinted.

"My money clip …" House demanded.

Damien chuckled, "I don't have it, bro!"

"Oh…" House felt the rage build up from the pit of his stomach, "So, if I let's say… check your sticky pockets!" He pulled on Damien's oversized hoodie.

"Hey watch it man!" Damien attempted to wiggle himself loose.

"Where is it!?" House barked. Suddenly noticing the two larger young men who came running from the corner. Damien had backup.

"I don't have your stupid money clip!" Damien whined loudly. Making sure whoever was around heard him.

But just as the two men came running and grabbed House's arms behind his back, he managed to pull out what he came for. He secured the money clip in his back pocket without any of them noticing.

"Come here!" The biggest of the group barked at House angrily, dragging him towards the back of the building.

"Hey…" House blurted as he stumbled and struggled to keep up, "Barefoot cripple here."

"_Oof!"_ The large thug threw House against the brick wall. Damien soon followed—he had House's cane.

"This is the smartass who stole from your stash?" one of the thugs asked.

Damien nodded.

"Are you kidding me?" House protested, "I just took a taste! And it wasn't even that good!"

"Shut up!" The bigger thug landed his left hook right on House's cheekbone.

"This was a reminder!" The thug warned, "You mess with our boy, Damien, you mess with us."

As soon as they disappeared from view, Damien looked down. He said nothing. Instead, he dropped the cane in front of House and just walked away.

…

"What happened to you?" Jackson asked as soon as he saw House set foot in the bar.

House inspected his bruised cheek—flinching at his own touch. He then proceeded to look down at his dirty socks.

"Rodeo…" He deflected. Taking a seat on the bar. Jackson still wasn't fond of House's specific brand of humor but he grew used to it in the past two weeks. He handed House his usual scotch.

"Where's your brother?" Jackson asked.

House sighed irritably, "Please don't tell me to tell him you said Hi."

Jackson shrugged. "I don't need the pansy…" he nodded towards the kitchen, "But that little prick brother of yours has been 'charming' my wife back there… She made him a batch of pickles she told me to give it to him."

House rolled his eyes. Apparently Wilson had this whole town under his Wilsonian spell.

"I'll pass them on… and tell your wife to wrap two bowls of soup and an order of fries to-go."

Jackson nodded and stomped heavily into the kitchen.

House put his elbows on the bar counter and closed his eyes, letting his spine stretch and crack. It's been a strange day. He let the weight of it all land off him for a brief moment.

"So why isn't the younger Callaway here with us today?" House heard Jackson's footsteps settle back behind the bar, "You two are usually attached at the hip."

"He's sick…" House said. Not even bothering to open his eyes or lift his head from where it was resting between his elbows.

"Oh…" Jackson acknowledged, "I hope it's nothing too bad…"

"Cancer." House replied nonchalantly without even thinking. He rubbed his left temple with his thumb—_man did his head hurt._

Jackson's eyes widened, "I had no idea... Tell him the wife and I have him in our prayers…"

"Save your prayers…" House lifted his head, letting out a slight groan, "He's terminal."

Now Jackson's eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets, "He's going to die?"

"Yeah…" House growled, downing his second scotch. He always hated the feeling of coming down off of Cocaine.

"How long?" Jackson asked with genuine care as he poured House another round.

House shrugged, "I don't know… Could be a month, could be three… Or he could just out right stop breathing right now as we speak..."

He was being dark and sarcastic, but Jackson took his words with all the seriousness in the world.

"And look at you… with no shoes and that bruised face… You idiot, you should be with your brother! Why are you even here?" He raged at House.

"Because as long as I'm here... Wilson is Schrodinger's cat…" House attempted to rest his head back on the counter but Jackson quickly slapped him back up.

"A Schroder what cat now?" Jackson was confused, "And who's Wilson?"

House couldn't help but to chuckle at how unfocused he was. "Wilson is Kyle's childhood nickname."

"Oh… So was Schroder your cat?"

"No… It's…" House wiped his aching forehead. "Schrodinger's cat… It's a famous theoretical experiment… There's a cat in a sealed box… And in that box there's also a vial of poison…"

"What does this cat have to do with the fact that you should be with your brother right now?" Jackson blurted.

"It has everything to do with it…" House growled, "If a single atom of the poison in the vial decays, it will cause the vial to break… releasing the poison resulting in the cat's death…"

"Did I already tell you you're a strange man, James Callaway?" Jackson raised an eyebrow.

House ignored, "Since the box is sealed. There's no way for us to know what happened… meaning the cat is in a superposition of states—both dead and alive…"

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard!" Jackson spat, "Of course the cat is either dead or alive, all you got to do is open the box and see which!"

House's eyes brightened, "Exactly! And that's when the superposition is lost! There is no single outcome unless it is observed..." he mused, "At least on a subatomic level…"

"Well…" Jackson grabbed House's scotch away before he could take another sip. "We're not on a subatomic supercalifragilistic state of level… And to me it just sounds like you're using all that fancy science talk as an excuse to avoid the issue…" He pulled the bag containing House's order of soups and fries and free pickles from under the counter and handed it to him. "You can run all you want, James —your brother is still dying. And if he dies, he's not going to remain alive on some magical scientific plain, waiting for you to get over it… He'll just be dead."

House's heart beat nervously in his chest.

"This whole cat nonsense…" Jackson looked him straight in the eye. "You don't really want to come back one night and find your brother dead, do you?" He asked, "To never say goodbye?"

House's features softened, "No…" his voice broke into a whisper.

"Then cut the crap and go spend time with him!" Jackson pulled the old phone from the wall, "I'll call you a cab… You're not driving anymore tonight."

…

Wilson heard the lock click open and the door slam shut. He lifted his head and blinked his sight into focus. "Where've you been?" He slurred, working his way up to a sitting position. "And what the hell happened to your face?"

"Walked into a door…" House retorted.

"Are you… barefoot?" Wilson croaked confusingly.

"I was extorted by an eight year old… You can decide later whether I'm being sarcastic or not…" House took a deep breath and threw himself on the sofa. He placed the contents of the to-go bag on the coffee table. "I brought us food…" he slid the Styrofoam cup of soup in front of Wilson.

"Is there anything I should know about, House?" Wilson suspiciously eyed the state of his friend.

"Well, Roger says hi… So does Damien, who by the way, is out of weed… Also the redheaded prostitute says hello… and Jackson's wife made you pickles!" House cooed dryly.

"What?" Wilson coughed, "Pickles…Prostitutes… House, what are you talking about?"

"Apparently the entire town is smitten with the charm of one Kyle Callaway…" House picked at the fries. "Also I'm seriously starting to doubt the quality of education this town has to offer…and the skills of one specific math teacher…"

Wilson stared at House blankly. This was all very confusing. Granted, not a new feeling when it came to being friends with House, but still not something you ever get used to.

"Hey…" House nudged. "Eat your soup…"

They ate the rest of the meal silently. Something House was grateful for after today. He secretly eyed Wilson as he slowly sipped his soup—suddenly noticing how much weight he's lost since the beginning of the trip and how long his hair was getting. He looked rundown, sick; there was no doubting it.

A thought then popped into House's head. He remembered in the burning building, in the midst of his drug-addled hallucination, an argument that came to him in the form of Stacy. She told him Wilson was his good side, his conscience. House snorted at the thought. If today's disastrous day was any indication to what life without Wilson would be like —there was no shadow of a doubt he needed him.

Or…

He just had to spontaneously grow a conscience in the short time they had left.

This time House looked at Wilson and downright smiled.

Wilson froze. "What?"

"Nothing…" House shook his head, "I'm just glad you're here."


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's notes: Wow, it's been forever since I've released a chapter. Been working on this one for a very long time but as often happens, life got in the way a few times before reaching the final result…  
Just wanted to let you this fic is still on and I will continue to post chapters, hopefully in a more steady pace from now on.  
Thanks for reading and if you do—please review! I enjoy your comments and love to get insight into what you think or any suggestions you may have._

**-Pt 10- **

"No!"

"Yes."

"You wouldn't…"

"Try me…"

"Okay stop!" House lunged himself between Wilson and the toilet. "You'll regret it…"

"No, I won't…" Wilson placed his hands on his hips in familiar "wonder-boy" fashion. "For the past couple of weeks I have done nothing but wait for your stupid car to get fixed while laying on a couch under the influence of narcotics and numerous other substances waiting to die…" He once again held the plastic bag, filled with an assortment of pills, over the toilet and shot House a final threatening look.

House didn't budge, "If you don't want them, I can use' em." He offered as a last resort to save the coveted treasure.

"No you can't." Wilson disagreed.

"But…but…" House pulled off the puppy dog eyes and gestured down to his bad leg.

"_You've_ been taking advantage of the whole situation!" Wilson accused, "I mean come on, House… Cocaine… Vicodin… And is that a glass of scotch in your hand?"

House looked down at the glass, "I was thirsty…"

"It's 10 am!" Wilson yelped, "What happened to _'I hallucinated a bunch of ghosts from my past who made me realize I should change!'_ That was a good plan for you… I liked that plan..." He mused.

"I was high on Heroin when I came up with that plan… So… There's that." House took a sip of his drink, "besides, I am merely a passenger on your terminal pity bus…" he continued. "Don't blame me… or my subconscious hallucination 'friends'..."

"So it's not _all_ your fault…" Wilson acknowledged. "And that's why the pity bus stops here. And we are _both_—" he emphasized, "…going to deal with this effectively instead of reenacting scenes from Trainspotting…"

"But…but…" House gestured toward Wilson's chest, again, making sure his glistening puppy dog eyes are noticeable.

"Yes… Cancer hurts..." Wilson noted dryly. "Thank you for your fine and articulate observation. Now move…" he gave House a gentle push.

House stumbled aside and watched as the brightly colored pills flushed down the toilet. He looked up at Wilson. Perhaps third time is indeed a charm and the puppy eyes will do their job. But no such luck.

"You'll be fine…" Wilson said. He gave House a gentle reassuring pat on the shoulder and stepped out of the restroom.

"Oh I know I will…" House called out, "It's _you_ I'm worried about!" he lied.

He limped into the other room and hovered over Wilson.

"Worried?" Wilson pondered dryly, "I had no idea you were capable of such a feeling…"

"You should be worried for yourself!" House interjected, "You want to add detox to your endless list of aches and pains? You _need_ those pills!"

"I saved enough Vicodin to manage your pain and mine…"

"It won't be enough." House said in a last feeble attempt to intimidate Wilson into getting more pills. He was used to having more than he needed. It was sort of like a security blanket and not having that extra dose made him feel uneasy. But he knew Wilson did not share this fear with him—he was just grasping at straws.

"Busy, House…" Wilson tried to ignore his friend's statement as he dug through a duffle bag that was placed on the desk.

House raised an eyebrow, "What are you digging for in there anyway?" He cocked his head.

Wilson shot House an annoyed look before pulling out an object from the bag and placing it on the desk.

"Bronchodilator?" House picks up the blue plastic inhaler and squeezes a dose of the medicine into air.

Wilson sighs irritably, "I thought treating the actual symptoms would be more effective than just blindly drugging myself and hoping for the best…"

House places the inhaler back on the table. "You don't have asthma. You're treating a symptom. Not the cause…"

"Well, the cause is not exactly treatable so it doesn't really matter at this point. Does it?" Wilson rolled his eyes.

It wasn't difficult to pick up on the deep sense of frustration in Wilson's voice. "Meds were making you groggy?" House asked. Sadly he knew the answer.

Wilson nodded. "_Might_ be the meds…"

They exchanged uncomfortable looks. This level of closeness was new to both of them. And sadly, as time marched on, they were being put through the test of having to become even closer and more open with each other. Neither one of them were very good at it. And yet as House realized the reason behind why Wilson chose to dispose of over half of his pill stash, he realized his friend wanted to spend the time he had feeling as alive as possible. And the thought gnawed deeply into his chest, hurting him just as much as he was sure it did Wilson.

House's mouth slacked open as he went deep into thought. Wilson eyed him curiously.

"Have you ever seen an alligator?" House randomly asked.

"What?" Wilson was confused by the sharp change in topic, "I mean, yeah I guess at the zoo when I was a kid… I took a guided swamp tour once…"

"No, no…" House cut him off, "I mean have you actually ever _seen_ one… up close…"

Wilson shrugged, "I guess not…"

House smiled slyly. "Wanna see something cool, Wilson?"

…

"I'm not putting my feet in there!" Wilson cringed as he watched House take off his shoes, roll up his jeans and dunk his feet in the swamp water.

"Fine…" House looked up at his slightly hysterical friend, "Just do me a favor and sit down, my neck is going to kill me if I have to look up every time I want to mock you for being such a girl…"

Wilson rolled his eyes and finally managed to settle himself into a seated position. Though he wasn't quite sure the slightly elevated wooden dock would stop a gator from eating them whole if it wished to do so.

"You're going to get your feet chopped off…" Wilson fidgeted.

House turned around and gave him a stare, "Could you pull your skirt out of your ass and just enjoy this?"

"There's a frickin' dinosaur swimming under your feet!" Wilson croaked, "How is the prospects of it chopping off your limbs even remotely enjoyable?"

House smiled. He reached back to the big bucket that stood behind him and dragged it closer. "You don't know anything…" He pulled the lid off of the bucket and set it aside.

Wilson extended his neck curiously. "You got to be kidding me…" he gawked once he realized what was going on.

House dangled the piece of raw chicken over the muddy swamp water.

"I always knew you were insane…" Wilson noted dryly.

His thoughts were interrupted when the jaw of an alligator swooned out of the water and snatched the raw chicken right from House's hands. It swam underneath his feet, ignoring their presence in the water completely.

"You were saying?" House asked proudly.

"Wow." Wilson huffed in disbelief, "Did that really just? ..."

"Yup." House extended his hand once again over the swamp and watched the same alligator leap out of the water.

Wilson shielded his face from the splash, "What the hell, House?"

"Relax!" House shouted over the continuous splashing sound, "I've got this!"

"Y… You've actually done this before?!"

"Yes, when my father was stationed at the gulf…" House dug through the bucket for the remaining scraps of chicken.

Wilson scratched his neck. "I'm going to take a wild guess here and assume John House wasn't the one who taught you how to do this…"

"It's a 'skill' I picked up over the summer he wasn't speaking to me…"

"So in addition to not speaking to you, did he also completely disregard your safety and leave you to feed alligators without any adult supervision?" Wilson asked sarcastically.

House shrugged, "That's the short version of it, yeah…"

"What's the longer version?"

House turned his head, "The longer version is boring… and long… two downsides… three if you add pointless…"

Wilson looked around. "It's a relaxing day, two buddies, feeding gators… We got time for the long boring pointless version."

"Are you sure we got time?" House raised an eyebrow, "Because you could drop dead at any moment…"

Wilson gave a weak smile in acknowledgement to his best friend's "special" brand of humor. "I'm pretty sure I can make it…"

"Fine!" House caved with a sigh, "Story time… So on this one weekend I tried to stay out of the house as much as possible…"

Wilson gave House a questioning look.

House let out yet another impatient sigh, "I was avoiding my dad, happy?"

Wilson nodded, looking rather smug. "Go on…"

"I wanted to break him…" House explained, "Wanted to see how long it would take for my parents to notice I was gone…" House flinched as the alligator swam a bit too close for comfort.

"I figured…" He continued, "If he cared… eventually he'll come and find me…"

Wilson swallowed nervously as he watched two more alligators join the first under the dock, "Did he?" he asked—his voice betraying him slightly as he continued to eye the reptiles closely.

House threw a piece of chicken far into the swamp and watched the alligators scurry away after it. "Nope…"

"But…" Wilson flinched as he heard the bones of one of the poor dead chickens crack underwater. "You were a child…"

"It didn't work that way with John…" House shook his head. "I ended up coming back with my tail between my legs three days later… his phrasing not mine…"

Wilson lowered his gaze. "So… I assume your three day absence has something to do with the alligator feeding frenzy?"

House's lip curled into sort of a smile as he recalled the events. "I decided I would walk deeper into the backwoods… And being the idiot kid that I was, I managed to trip into a swamp."

"Smooth…"

House shot Wilson a look, "Anyway, my foot got caught in something and I panicked… tripped into the water… but before I could figure out what was going on… Ray pulled me out."

"And Ray is the one who showed you how to feed the alligators?"

"I thought you wanted the long version…"

"Right." Wilson said apologetically, "Carry on…"

"So this Ray guy…" House continued as he pulled another piece of chicken and followed the alligator's movement carefully, "He's a real backwoods guy… Big… Drinks Gatorade instead of water… thick bushy beard… You get the picture…"

"Somewhat… yeah…" Wilson suppressed a gasp as he watched House's toe nearly brush the beast's spine in the water.

"So I'm being pulled out of the water by Sasquatch… and he wraps a clean towel around me and asks me why I'm crying…"

"You we're crying?"

House scratched his chin, "Lets see, I almost drowned and… uh… oh yeah! I was _twelve_!" He emphasized.

"Right… Sorry… Continue…"

"He asked me why I was crying and I told him I was sure an alligator was going to eat me."

"That's a reasonable assumption." Wilson concurred.

"I thought so too…" House growled, "But Ray found it funny."

"He laughed? At a frightened twelve year old?"

"In case you haven't noticed the theme of the story—people do that sometime…" House supported his thigh and slowly pulled his right foot out of the water. "I got mad and told him it was a valid fear… since gators can sense movement in the water and that's how they detect pray…"

"Smart." Wilson nodded.

"I thought so too… I read it in this book my teacher in Portugal gave me before we came back to the States." House breathed something between a chuckle and a sigh. "But Ray didn't buy it. He kept laughing. And then he pulled out some beef jerky out of his front pocket. He sat at the edge of the swamp and dangled his feet in the water…"

House paused and brushed his thigh for a moment. "And the gator—It actually chose the easy meal over the kill… even though it detected the foot motion in the water… It saw the other offering, the jerky, and went for that."

Wilson smiled, "Must've been pretty cool."

"It was…" House said, "Got me to stop crying and screaming—I was shocked. It was the antithesis of everything I was brought up to believe up until that point. It wasn't a law, a rule, or written in a book somewhere, it wasn't science or an equation either. The way he fed the gators, it was common sense—pure instinct."

"Or just dumb luck…" Wilson offered an alternative explanation.

"Could be." House agreed. "But still interesting…" He let a small smile creep to his lips.

"So you spent the next three days feeding the alligators with Ray?" Wilson asked.

House shrugged, "He didn't chase me off the property so…"

"And your parents?"

"John would've never given me the satisfaction. He waited until I got cold enough and hungry enough and missed my mommy enough to come home on my own. And that was the end of it." House hissed and rubbed his thigh more vigorously, "Now do I get a Vicodin for sharing? My leg is being fidgety…"

Wilson nodded and quickly opened the zipper to a small duffle bag, "You have earned your golden star…" he dropped two pills in House's palm.

House threw the pills down his throat. "You have me trained like a damn Labrador with these things…"

"Down doggy…"

House shot him a venomous look.

Wilson let a few deep sounding coughs escape into his clenched fist.

"Are you okay?" House asked. "Those sound painful…"

Wilson just shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does…" House wasn't sure who he was trying to convince— Wilson or himself.

Wilson sighed. "It's been five months since we left Princeton…" his face lost all expression, "I should be dead… House… I'll take pain over death at this point."

House processed, but as much as he tried to zoom in on an appropriate response he found that his mind was just swimming with thoughts and he was afraid that if he even tried to open his mouth—his vocal chords might betray him and he would fall apart completely.

He watched Wilson let out a frustrated shaky breath—nervously fumbling with a lock of his hair as he tried to compose himself. And that's when House decided he couldn't just leave Wilson hanging like that. No. Not after what he just said. His best friend in the whole world was officially living on borrowed time! But what could he possibly say to make any of this better? House had no idea. Truthfully, he knew nothing he would say could ever make this moment any better. This moment _sucks_. But he had to do something—didn't he? So he opted for something new entirely. He placed a hand on Wilson's shoulder and said nothing.

"What are you doing?" Wilson asked suspiciously without turning to look at House.

"I am…" House contemplated, "… Showing you support…" he hesitated for a moment, "and… affection…" his gaze was still glued to the center of the lake. "Yes…" He paused. "Those..." He nodded and finally settled it with himself rather awkwardly.

"Oh…" Wilson acknowledged.

House gave Wilson's shoulder a squeeze and then patted it lightly a few times, "There there…" he mumbled.

As much as Wilson wanted to give House the benefit of the doubt he couldn't contain himself any longer and burst into laughter.

House suppressed a chuckle and tried to remain composed, "What! I'm being comforting!" his hand was still firmly planted on Wilson's shoulder.

Wilson's eyes closed shut. The lines on his face became more pronounced as he tried to get his giggling fit under control. "M'sorry…" he snorted, "I just… This is so unlike you…" he wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye and coughed.

"Am I doing it wrong?" House asked jokingly—not minding poking fun at himself. Sure, this wasn't exactly the desired result he was expecting but it made Wilson feel better so it was good nonetheless.

"I wouldn't expect any better from the boy who was raised by alligators…" Wilson chuckled.

But the laughter quickly turned into a coughing fit, and Wilson found himself doubled over—clenching the edge of the dock uncomfortably.

House watched his friend carefully. He finally concluded that though the cough and laughter were both subsiding, he did not like the heaviness of Wilson's breathing. He turned back and dug through the infamous duffle bag, pulling out the blue inhaler.

House shook Wilson gently in order to get him into focus, "Here." He handed over the inhaler.

"Th…Thanks…" Wilson muttered before taking a deep breathfull.

It took a couple of minutes before Wilson's chest began to rise in a more natural rhythm—his cheeks still flushed from the effort.

"Better?" House asked.

Wilson let his lungs receive a few more mouthfuls of air before he replied.

"You always get me laughing, House."

"Yeah… Some friend…" House noted sarcastically. "I'll get you to laugh and kill you in the process…"

"Meh…" Wilson shrugged. "At least I'll die happy…" He caught House avoiding his gaze with the corner of his eye.

…

They drove down the long stretch of road that would eventually lead them back to the main highway.

"Okay so alligators— More of a James Callaway thing… Not so much a Kyle Callaway thing…" House looked at Wilson, who was sprawled in the back seat, through the rear view mirror. "So technically by the unofficial rules of the road… this means you get to choose where we head out to next. So...where to, Kimosabe?"

Wilson yawned tiredly. "I think I'm done for the day."

House nodded. "Okay…" he rolled his tongue, "Then where do you want to go next in general? I'm not tired… I could drive us through the night and we can be somewhere new by the time you wake up in the morning."

Wilson gave it some thought. They had spent the last five months moving from place to place, experiencing all the adventures he never got to have in his entire life. To be honest, in his over-organized mind, he always thought he would kick the bucket in New Orleans. But New Orleans came and went and he was still standing.

"Hey, sleeping beauty!"

Wilson jolted awake by the sound of House's voice and an empty plastic bottle hitting his head.

"Where to?" House urged, turning his flat cap forward in order to look more like a cabby, or some joke to that effect.

"I eh…" Wilson found it hard to speak as a sudden realization popped into his head, "How soon can we be in Jacksonville?"

"We can try for 8 hours…"

Wilson leaned back, letting the idea swirl in his mind a little longer before he spoke again. "There's a hospital there."

House felt his heart leap out of his chest. _A hospital? _

…

"You could've been more specific when you said _'hospital'_…" House spat bitterly as Wilson declared they had indeed arrived at the desired destination.

The big white sunny building was decorated with a well-manicured lawn and assorted flowers beds. A big lilac sign greeted all visitors and newcomers:  
_"Welcome to the River Point Behavioral Health Center." _

"So what's the deal, Casper? You actually are dead, I'm hallucinating you? This is my brain's way of telling me to commit myself?"

"Good one. But, no… I thought… it would be a good idea to see Danny…" As the words left his mouth for the first time, Wilson sensed a pinch of nervousness. _Perhaps this wasn't such a great idea after all…_

"You mean your _other_ brother that belongs in the asylum?" House asked.

Wilson nodded, "My parents moved him down here when they decided to permanently relocate to their condo in Florida…"

House could sense Wilson's uncertainty. "I thought you wanted to spare him your death… You said he couldn't handle it…"

"Well…" Wilson rubbed the side of his face nervously, "Maybe getting a little extra time is a…"

"Please don't say _sign_." House rolled his eyes.

"So maybe I just changed my mind… As a result of having more time."

"Nice save…" House watched his sickly friend take a few slow steps towards the front entrance. "Are you sure about this? Do you want me to come with?"

Wilson shook his head, "Danny will recognize you. Just… Stay here and try to stay out of trouble while I'm inside, okay?"

"You say that like you don't trust me…"

Wilson raised an eyebrow and pointed at House, "Stay in the car. Catch some Z's. You've been driving all night."

…

With his visitors ID badge in hand, Wilson was led down the well-lit hallway.

"He asks about you…" Dr. Jacobs told Wilson, "He said you used to visit him a whole lot back in New York."

"Yes." Wilson tried to keep his tone as professional as possible. "I was the one who arranged Danny's accommodations back on the east coast—the facility was also located close enough to my job in Princeton."

Dr. Jacobs nodded and said nothing— which made Wilson grow increasingly guilty.

"It was my parents idea to move him down here." He explained. "I was head of Oncology and couldn't get away from work... my patients… Or else I would've…"

"Was?" Dr. Jacobs asked curiously.

"What?"

"You said 'I was head of Oncology'… Did you quit your job or something, Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson's nostrils flared—his nerves beginning to get the best of him. "Look, Dr…" He ran a hand through his hair, "I want to discuss something with Danny… That might not be so easy for him to hear…"

Dr. Jacobs looked up curiously, "Oh?"

Wilson pulled out a set of X-Rays from an envelope and handed them over to Dr. Jacobs who quickly scanned through them. Once Jacob's face turned white and his eyes widened— Wilson knew he was done. It was the classic reaction of each and every person he had to deliver the news of his death to. He hated that look.

"These…" Dr. Jacobs chose his words carefully, "Are dated from five months ago…" he turned to a different X-ray, "And this one was done three months ago… on the other side of the country."

Wilson nodded.

"How are you still alive?"

Wilson shrugged and shook his head, "I don't know… Do you believe in God? Guardian angels? Damn luck? Whatever your thing is—take your pick. I sure don't mind…"

"You can't tell Danny about this." Jacobs stated—Wilson's dry sarcasm obviously going over his head. "He can't process this kind of news. He'll be better off if you just let him believe you're still somewhere in Jersey."

"Well, that's your semi-professional opinion…" Wilson folded his arms.

"Look…" Jacobs tried to keep his cool. "I can't prevent you from telling Danny what you want, but as his doctor I strongly advise you…"

"I appreciate your advice." Wilson cut Jacobs off, "But I made up my mind. Danny has a right to know why he won't be seeing his brother ever again." He paused and coughed into his fist, "And you… You just don't want to deal with the repercussions. Which is… irrelevant… since it's your job—so kindly go screw yourself…"

Both men just stared at each other for a moment.

"Is this his room?" Wilson asked as he already began to pull the door open.

…

Gerald Hemingway, short, wide-built, in his late 40's huffed irritably as he circled around the orange dodge challenger for what seemed to him like the 10th time. It was, in fact, the second time. But the presence of the classic well-restored hotrod in his usual handicapped spot irked him. Even more so, the sleeping 50-plus-year-old man, who happened to occupy the vehicle at the moment, had awakened some mid-life crisis within his soul— a heaping pile of jealousy mixed with a general feeling of challenged manly-hood. And though Gerald found it hard to express exactly what those feelings were, he did know one thing for sure—he wanted the hotrod and it's contents out of _his_ parking spot.

Once House was abruptly awakened by Garland's persistent attempts to do so, he offered a much simpler explanation as to why someone would just wake him up like that—the man was most likely an idiot with a dash of jerk.

He stretched in his seat and let his sleepy eyes focus on the source of the noise. As he suspected, a fat jerk stood right above his window—glaring down at him with a menacing look. House rolled his eyes—obviously ignoring the jerk won't make him go away, which left him with no other choice…

"Can I help you?" he asked, rolling down the window.

"Yes! You can! You're in my spot."

"Oh…" House's blue eyes glistened innocently; "Well in that case…" he rolled the window back up.

"Hey!" Gerald knocked on the window frantically. When the window was almost rolled up completely, he instinctively shoved his fat fingers above it and tried to push the mechanism down.

"You better move those piggies…" House warned.

"Get out of my spot!"

"Look... I drove all night to get my terminal best friend over here to see his mentally ill brother—not good genes in that family when you come to think of it…" House scratched his stubble. "But that's okay!" He assured the annoyed stranger, "Because my mother's a whore and I don't know who my real daddy is… which is what makes our friendship so fitting…" House knew that since Wilson was visiting the facility as "James Wilson" and not "Kyle Callaway" there was no use in selling the "brother" story to the stranger—the least he could do is have some fun with the angry chubby man.

"Move" Gerald threatened. He was obviously not amused. His fingers were still planted firmly on the car window.

"It's a public handicap spot!" House argued, "You seem to be moving just fine…"

"I stubbed my toe last month." Gerald pointed down to his "wounded" toe.

"You don't want this spot because of a stubbed toe, you want it because you're a lazy fat bastard…" House pointed out as his mind filled with thoughts of the nap he could be having instead of this conversation.

Gerald didn't budge.

"Get your porky fingers off my car…" House growled.

Gerald took a deep breath, "Move your midlife crisis of a car out of my parking space…"

"Fine!" House turned the key in the ignition.

…

Wilson slowly walked into the small room. It was a miserable place with one bright window with metal bars and unflattering florescent lighting. Wilson observed the space around him. It appeared that Danny had decorated the walls with paintings and scribbles. Wilson couldn't help but to smile—Danny was always a talented artist.

At the furthest wall from the door, facing the window, stood a small desk—and it was there, hunched over, that Wilson saw Danny. He smiled.

"Hey Danny…" Wilson kept his tone light and steady.

Danny's head perked up—he would recognize this voice anywhere. "James?" He asked, not bothering to look back, but Wilson could tell he was excited by the way his shoulders tensed up.

"Turn around and be a good host, Danny." Wilson told his brother. And Danny quickly obliged.

"Yes." He said, "You can sit on my bed, do you like my new room, James?"

Wilson sat down as Danny told him to, "I do." He looked all around him and noticed Danny somehow managed to paint clouds on the ceiling. "It looks fantastic Dan… you did good."

Danny's eyes widened with joy, "I'm glad you like it. I'm glad you're here." He admitted.

Wilson nodded, "I'm glad to be here too." He noted his brother's features. Much like his own—his brother sported high cheekbones and dark eyes. His hair was shaved down to a crew cut that was common in these kinds of facilities to avoid lice problems. It reminded Wilson of the day House got back from Mayfield—hair shaved down to his skull. He remembered how much it reminded him of Danny and how hard it was to go through that again with his best friend.

"You look good Danny…" Wilson smiled, "Do you like it here?"

"They don't let me outside as much…" Danny jumped right in. His brother was always his keeper. In the last facility he lived in, Wilson always made sure Danny was well taken care of and that his needs were met in the most humane way possible.

"They don't listen to me when I tell them I don't like the meds either…" Danny continued. His voice shook and he spoke as quickly as he could—as if he was trying to make sure Wilson knew everything so he can finally fix it.

Wilson nodded, "What's wrong with the meds?"

"I can't think…" Danny whined, "I can't… I just… I can't think…"

"Okay." Wilson assured Danny—keeping his tone as cool as possible, "I'll take care of it."

Danny sighed in relief, "Thank you… thank you…" he embraced his brother in a hug.

Wilson was taken aback but quickly laid his hand on his brother's shoulder.

"You're skinny…" Danny noted. He poked Wilson's rib, still grasping him tightly.

"Yeah…" Wilson wiggled himself out his brother's arms, "about that… There's something I came here to talk to you about."

Danny looked at Wilson through glassy eyes.

Wilson sighed, "Listen…Danny… I need you to promise me that you can handle what I'm about to tell you."

"I can handle it." Danny nodded.

"No." Wilson shook his head, "I need you to brace yourself and I need you to be strong for me."

Danny's eyes gazed upwards as he mumbled something. He was searching for a memory, "Like when you found me." He remembered.

"Yes! Like when I found you…" Wilson remembered that night, finding Danny on the streets of NY after he's been released from a local hospital. He remembered how cold it was and how sad he looked and what he told Danny—_"Be strong for me."_

And later on, during the time Danny was institutionalized in NY, Wilson kept telling Danny to not give up on treatment, to let him know if he needed anything. Wilson promised he would make sure all his needs are met, that he would not be treated like a sub par human. And he used those same words— _"If you'll be strong for me—I'll be here for you."_

"I can do that." Danny looked determined, "Please trust me, James—no one else does. I can do it."

Wilson smiled weakly, "I wouldn't be here if I didn't trust you, Danny…"

Danny beamed with pride, "I got your back…" he reassured Wilson, "Tell me."

Wilson took a deep breath, "Do you know why I'm here, Danny? Here in Florida and not at work—in New Jersey?"

Danny just eyed Wilson. Apparently he was focused—determined to give Wilson his full attention.

"I'm on the road, like that book you like…" Wilson said lightly, doing his best to hide the news yet to come.

"Travels with Charley?" Danny asked.

"Yes… Travels with Charley…" Wilson concurred.

"Do you have a dog like Charley?" Danny asked excitingly, "To be your road buddy?"

Wilson looked down and chuckled, "Yeah, you can sort of say I have a dog road buddy."

"Is it a poodle, like Charley?"

"He's more of a mutt…"

"Can I see it?!"

Wilson slid his fingers through his hair; "I don't think they'll let me bring him in here… He's watching the car."

"Oh…" Danny nodded—processing the information. He looked up at the ceiling to his clouds. "Is it fun?" he asked Wilson.

"Yes. It's fun."

"Did you see places? Meet people?"

As Wilson watched his brother daydream, he found himself in an awkward situation. "Yes." He replied as he realized that he could confidently look back at the last five months and recall nothing but adventure.

Danny smiled, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since Wilson walked in. "You look happy."

The way Danny said those words felt almost sane to Wilson. It was the most honest and normal of observations and Wilson knew that there would be no better time than this…

"I'm dying, Danny…"

Danny said nothing. Instead he waited for the brother he trusted most in this world to explain.

"I'm sick. Cancer. And I am going to travel… like John and Charley… and I won't stop until…" Wilson paused, "…until I can't do it anymore… until I die."

Danny's lips moved slightly—as if he was reciting the words back to himself in his head.

Wilson eyed him with caution. He waited for his brother to explode, have a tantrum, react—anything.

"Virus of restlessness…" Danny mumbled, looking around the four walls of his room, which were decorated with drawings of different places and things. "You found a reason to go…" he told Wilson, his tone surprisingly confident and bright.

"What?" Wilson asked.

"A journey is a person in itself—no two are alike…"

"Is that from your book?" Wilson asked. Danny nodded.

"You look happy…" Danny beamed—he was looking around the room at the adventurous wall murals he had created for himself.

Wilson chuckled, not sure exactly what he should say. "You said that already…" he was still slightly confused by his brothers' reaction to the news.

"Danny…" Wilson snapped his fingers in front of his brother's face, directing his attention back to him, "Do you know what all this means?"

Danny rolled his eyes, "James…" He said, mimicking his brother's serious tone and sounding surprisingly like him, "I'm schizophrenic… Not retarded…"

Wilson nodded, accepting the correction. "Do you understand this is the last time you're going to see me?" he asked.

Danny looked around him again, finding comfort in the drawings. "You're lucky you're dying…" He said, shooting up from his seat and darting to his desk. He came back with a piece of paper in hand—he handed it to Wilson.

Wilson looked down at the paper. It was a pencil art sketch of the same room they were sitting in—only instead of the white walls with murals of mountains and endless fields—there were shadows all around.

"Is that what you see?" Wilson asked Danny.

Danny once again seemed rigid—his shoulders tensing up. "You're lucky you're free. I've never seen you this happy…"

Wilson sighed, "Thanks Dan…" he folded the pencil sketch and put it in his pocket, got up from Danny's bed and made his way to the door. Before he left he turned around to face his brother one last time.

"Hey Danny?"

"Yeah? James…" Danny lifted his gaze and looked up at Wilson.

"Do mom and dad still come to see you?"

Danny shook his head.

Wilson nodded. "I'll have a talk with that doctor of yours about your meds, okay? Goodbye, Danny…"

"I'll see you on the other side, James."

Wilson closed the door and found Dr. Jacobs standing in anticipation on the other side, "How did it go?" He asked, nervously eyeing the room and obviously surprised by the lack of sound coming from behind the door.

"It went well…" Wilson said coldly, "And my brother needs his meds adjusted—he's seeing things and he's terrified… Also whatever other drugs you're giving him are causing his muscles to tense, so knock it off or dose it down. And one last thing…" Wilson gave Dr. Jacobs a threatening look, "My brother is not crazy… Don't treat him like he is… And just because I won't be around and my parents cannot be bothered, don't think nobody will be watching over him. Expect postcards from a friend of mine—his name is Charley. If Danny is EVER in some sort of trouble I will make sure you get sued for everything you got. Got it?"

Jacobs nodded.

"Good."

…

"Ahhhh!" Gerald let out an excruciating call of pain, "You! You ran over my toe!"

"You told me to move!" It took a tremendous amount of effort out of House to hide his grin.

"MY FINGERS WERE STILL WEDGED BETWEEN YOUR CAR AND THE WINDOW!" He screeched, "I yelled 'STOP!'"

House shrugged innocently, "How was I supposed to know they were so fat they wouldn't pop out?!"

In the distance House saw Wilson running over to the scene of the crime.

"There comes my friend right now!" House spoke casually to Gerald—who was still obviously in a great deal of pain, "Remember? The terminally ill one, who actually has a valid reason to park close to the entrance? Unlike _some_ people!" he comically rolled his eyes.

"What did you do?" Wilson growled at House when he finally arrived at the scene.

"I swear mommy—it was like that when I got here!" House whined.

Wilson sighed, "I had a long day… I don't have time for this…" he opened the passenger door of the challenger and climbed in. "Drive." He ordered dryly.

"But…" House gazed outside at the furious injured man and then gave Wilson a worried look.

"Oh…" Wilson peaked outside, "Hey you! Fatty!" he caught Gerald's attention. "Is this your car?" he asked, pointing at a black Lexus with a handicap permit.

"Yes!" Gerald still squirmed with pain, "So?"

"If you even bother to look up our license plate to press charges I'll testify as to how you attempted to assault my crippled friend while he was still seated in his car, parked legally in a handicapped spot with an _actual valid_ handicapped permit…"

Gerald's jaw slacked.

"And speaking of… Your permit's expired…" Wilson added. "My work here is done." He turned back to House. "Drive."

"Niiice…" House growled proudly, accepting a fist pump from Wilson, as they drove away.

…

"Are you incapable of being left unsupervised?" Wilson regained his usual special power of reprimanding House a little while after they reached the second exit on the highway.

"I was sleeping!" House argued.

"Even in your sleep you're trouble!" Wilson sighed, "When can I drive?" he asked, "I need a distraction…"

"Visit went bad?" House asked.

"Surprisingly… no…" Wilson coughed, "His reaction was as sane as you and I…"

"Well that's no good."

Wilson chuckled, "It's just fine." He bit his lip; "I need you to do me a favor after I'm gone…"

House eyed Wilson curiously.

"I need you to send a postcard to Danny… one every two weeks. Sign them as "Charley". As far as Danny's concerned—you're a dog. As far as his doctors are concerned—you're a lawyer."

"Interesting…" House nodded, "I think I can pull off a dog-lawyer…"

"If you can stay out of trouble…" Wilson huffed.

"They have stationery in jail too…"

"House…" Wilson warned.

As the sun began to set and the clouds came closing in, they both knew they'd have to get off the road soon.

"So why do you want to drive all of a sudden?" House asked—bringing the car to a stop at the side of the road, "I was under the impression that you hated this car."

"I want to see what it feels like on the other side…"

_- To be continued... Chapter 11 coming soon!_


	11. Chapter 11

**-Pt 11-**

"Cough…" House ordered, placing the cold stethoscope to Wilson's bare back. Wilson obliged, releasing a set of half breathed wheezy sounding coughs.

House winced before finally removing the device from around his neck.

"That bad huh?" Wilson croaked, coughing into his fist.

"Yeah pretty much…" House growled, "Unless… have you inhaled a cat in heat while I wasn't looking? Because that would be a game changer…"

Wilson smiled weakly and shook his head.

"We can't know anything for sure…" House pointed out, "Not unless we go to an actual hospital…"

Wilson was already shaking his head again while House was speaking. "No."

House nodded, "Fine." He got up and threw a T-shirt in Wilson's general direction. "Put a shirt on Skeletor… I'm gonna go pay for another day in this dump and see if I can find us something to eat that doesn't involve a vending machine or the last Twinkie on earth…"

"Those are worth a lot of money you know…" Wilson shot back half-hazardly.

"Pfft… Yeah…" House huffed, "Like any baked good pumped with preservatives will last long enough to turn into cash around me…but wait…" He paused dramatically, "…is it still worth something coming out the other end?"

"Doubt it." Wilson replied dryly.

House nodded, opening the door of the dingy motel room, "Stay here." His eyes were still planted on Wilson as he limped out.

…

House stepped out of the room into the glaring afternoon sun. He leaned heavily on the railing of the second floor wrap around balcony and squinted his eyes. In his head, a war was raging:

"_He's dying…" _the all too familiar voice told him.

"_No he's not…"_ Another argued.

"_He can't go on like this—not much longer…"_

"_He's strong. He beat the odds many times before."_

"_I'm not ready…"_

"_No one asked you…"_

"_I can't…"_

"_Life doesn't work like that…"_

"_I can't watch him die…"_

He closed his eyes and inhaled a shaky breath. Why was he even thinking about this? All Wilson needed was an extra day of rest and he'll be fine—ready to pester him and drag him to yet another useless pit stop across the US of A. All House needed to do now is focus on what needed to be done—paying for the room and getting food. He placed his cane back down to the ground and began to walk towards the stairs.

"_Denial…" _a final voice in his head chimed in. And House could feel the blood rush to his head and his knuckles grow white.

…

"Eat." House growled. He threw the remains of his pre-wrapped turkey sandwich and nudged the hot and steamy cup of instant soup toward Wilson.

"Come on!" He urged, "I didn't voluntarily give up the last cup of normal tasting food on the planet just so you could look at how pretty it is…"

"This isn't the Zombie apocalypse, House…" Wilson raised an eyebrow, "Have at it."

House could feel the frustration build up inside him. "You wouldn't let me get away with this if it was the other way around…"

Wilson tiredly leaned back on the couch, "But you're not me…"

…

_-Approximately 15 years prior-_

"You don't want to be walking on that leg so soon after surgery…" Wilson warned. He was leaning against his best friend's bedroom door, watching him carefully in case he needed to make a run for it to catch him—though he doubted House could make it beyond a sitting position at this point.

"Shouldn't you be playing the Hokey-Pokey with your new wife?" House shot venomously, his face grimaced with pain as he attempted to straighten his freshly mangled leg.

"Well, you know me… I'm more of a Twister kind of guy…" Wilson folded his arms. But when House didn't respond he took it as a clear sign that his friend's state was dire.

"Come on. House…" he practically begged, "let me help you."

"Over my dead body…"

"Which is almost what happened! At least that's what Stacy told me…"

If House had anything hard he could slam his fist on or something menacing he could do to that effect he would, but the painful truth was that he was stuck in a fluffy soft bed, crippled, and in no way even prepared to move. This was the opposite of menacing—he was pathetic.

"So is that why you're here?" He asked, downplaying the pain radiating from his right thigh, "Because of Stacy?"

"If I was here for Stacy don't you think that would require Stacy actually being here and not at work?" Wilson raised an eyebrow.

Tired of his futile struggle, House leaned back, "Which brings up another interesting question… why aren't _you _at work?"

"Can I get you anything?" Wilson tried again—though he knew what the reply would be.

"Bite me…"

Wilson nodded, "Pancakes and painkillers it is…"

…

"You're wheezing…" House grabs Wilson's shoulder and turns him around gently.

Wilson coughs harshly before opening his eyes and seeing the offering House has placed in front of him.

"Where did you get the oxygen from?" he asks, shakily placing the mask over his nose and mouth.

"You have your nagging ways and I have mine… I'm stealth… like a ninja."

Even through the mask, Wilson can't suppress his look of worry and an eye-roll.

"Just breathe and don't worry about it…" House reassures his friend, "Last time I checked, Oxygen was still legal…"

…

_-Approximately 7 years prior-_

Wilson stormed out of House's apartment as quickly as he came in. He couldn't believe it—House actually managed to down a whole_ stolen_ bottle of Oxycontin. The worst part of it was the fact that House had stolen the pills from _Wilson's patient – _once again putting him and his career in jeopardy.

Wilson kicked the concrete pavement in front of him angrily. _What kind of friend would do that?_

But as much as he wanted to stay angry with House, an answer to this rhetorical question was quick to pop into his head and ruin his plan:

_A friend who really can't help it…_

"Crap…" Wilson muttered to himself as he made his way back up the stairs leading to the apartment. His priorities were once again shaken by his conscience—sure House stole the pills, lied to the cop, forged prescriptions and betrayed Wilson's trust and pretty much everyone around him. But that didn't change the fact that right now at this very moment, House was lying helplessly, in a pile of his own sick, on Christmas Eve.

His anger could wait; consequences could wait. Right now Wilson would do what needed to be done. He would go back into the apartment and pick House up from the floor and drag him to the comfort of the couch. He would clean the vomit from the hardwood, the corners of House's mouth and pour the liquor down the drain—just because.

And then he'll just sit there, perhaps for an hour… maybe two… waiting for House to stir and show signs of consciousness. With any luck, House would purge the remains of Oxy from his system by then and all will be fine. But Wilson will wait nonetheless, just in case.

He'll be gone before House wakes up, and tomorrow he will give him a mouthful of his opinion. He knows it won't help, but screw it—it makes him feel better.

He doubts House will remember he was even there. Because if he ever did, he's pretty good at pretending he doesn't. Perhaps Wilson could tell House someday and he would thank him.

"Pfft… fat chance…" he snorts to himself before he opens the door and re-enters the dark apartment.

…

"It's snowing…" Wilson croaked hoarsely, rubbing the sleep off his eyes.

"Yes." House acknowledged from the other side of the room, "that's why I'm trying to up this stupid thermostat…" he kicked the wall in frustration, which resulted in an expected jolt of pain down his thigh.

"Don't do that…" Wilson reprimanded as he pulled himself up to a sitting position— just barely.

"How're you feeling?" House asked.

"Like crap…" Wilson stretched his limbs, "but better…"

House shrugged, "Figures… since you look like crap." He waited for Wilson to throw him a look, "but better…" he quickly added.

Wilson nodded, "It would be nice if you could get somebody to fix the heat though…" he bundled up in whatever fabrics he could manage to grab in his proximity, "It's freezing in here…"

House joggled his tongue nervously and checked the thermostat; "I got it up to 67… you should be fine…" he limped across the room and kneeled in front of the couch where Wilson sat. He placed his palm to his friend's forehead, "You…" he inhaled a breath full of the warm air radiating from Wilson, "…are burning up."

…

_-Approximately 6 years prior-_

House was lying on the couch, clutching the side of his abdomen when he heard the familiar knock on the door.

"Go away!" He hollered, not even bothering to hide his discontent.

"I've got you pills!" The voice behind the door exclaimed.

"Come in!"

"Well that didn't take a whole lot of persuading…" Wilson said as he closed the front door behind him and entered the apartment.

"You had me at pills…" House joked, wincing as he dragged himself up from the couch—still clutching his side.

"Pain from the biopsy Thirteen gave you?" Wilson asked.

House grimaced, "She really needs to work on her skills with the giant needle thingy…"

"Maybe if someone didn't dose her with caffeine—_knowing_ it would make her hands shake…" Wilson folded his arms.

House took in a painful breath of defeat, "Good point." He reached for the pills on the coffee table and plopped back on the sofa.

"How many of those did you take tonight?" Wilson asked curiously.

"A lot, but not quite enough…" House deflected as he threw two pills down his throat.

"You should be kinder to your liver today…" Wilson sighed. He knew any attempt to get House to lay off the pills was futile, but he still felt the need to say it—just to put it out there.

"Thanks Doc… I'll remember that… thank you for the pills… Now unless you want to grab one of those Xbox controllers and let me kick your ass in Online-Team-Mode… You can go home now."

"You look flushed." Wilson noted, ignoring everything House had just said.

"I told you earlier, I had a mild transfusion reaction…"

"With a fever that won't go away even after taking buckets of Vicodin?" Wilson managed to get a feel of House's forehead with a quick draw of the hand before House slapped him away.

"Okay… " House squirmed, "a not-so-mild transfusion reaction! Why are we even discussing this?" he raised his voice as his gaze followed Wilson, who got up and was now making his way to the kitchen, "It's no surprise—I knew I would get one!"

"House…" Wilson dug through the kitchen cupboards and through the fridge, "Lean back and shut up before you hurt yourself…"

"A bit snappy today aren't we?"

"Yes." Wilson grabbed a case of bottled water from under the sink and carried it back to the living room; "I'm a real bitch sometimes…"

"Oh my god!" House squealed, "It's like you stole my thoughts! No wonder we're besties!"

The case of water landed on the floor next to the couch with a loud thud. Wilson grabbed one of the bottles and handed it to House. "Drink."

House obliged, twisting the cap open. He didn't pass on the opportunity to do this while shooting Wilson the most miserable and angry of looks.

"I'm gonna make you drink at least two of those now. Two more in an hour—you look dehydrated. If that doesn't help cool you off we'll move on to more drastic measures…"

"Does that mean you're staying?" House shot dryly, taking another sip of water.

"Yes. Deal with it." Wilson grabbed the spare Xbox controller.

…

"Please, House…" Wilson begged. His entire body was now shaking and his hair was drenched in sweat.

"I can't give you Vicodin…" House's voice was tense with frustration, "Your breathing is shallow enough as it is—you're a doctor, you know this…"

Wilson attempted to swallow whatever moisture was left in his dry mouth; "It hurts…" he coughed into the edge of his sleeve.

In a split moment of pure instinct, House allowed himself to push the strands of sweaty hair away from Wilson's forehead. When Wilson finally caught his breath and managed to open his eyes, he wore a look of defeat and pure exhaustion.

House took a deep breath, "We need a plan…" he spoke in a low, serious voice, "You're immunocompromized, this _can't _just be the cancer—you managed to catch some kind of bug…" he looked up at Wilson to make sure he was still with him, "We need to get you through this, get the fever down, manage your pain, keep you breathing."

Wilson shot House a skeptical heart-breaking look.

"You can do this." House assured his friend, "Just… hang in there and pretty soon you'll be back to feeling your more normal level of Cancer-crappiness…"

"You really think so?" Wilson asked weakly.

House nodded, "I know so."

"_I hope so…" _House's mind contradicted.

…

_-Approximately 5 years prior-_

As soon as Cuddy led House into the room it was painfully obvious to Wilson that something went horribly wrong.

Cuddy's expression read a mixture of worry and "_deal with him_."

House's expression was nothing short of sheer terror.

Wilson swallowed nervously and nodded toward Cuddy—signaling her that she should leave—he'll handle this.

"House?" he asked softly, grabbing the sleeve of his scared friend's blazer, "You think you'll be okay to sit on the couch for a few minutes while I make a phone call?"

House's expression was still dead; his puffy tired eyes wet with unshed terrified tears. "Do it." He croaked, slowly allowing Wilson to guide him down to the couch.

A short while after, once he got the OK from Dr. Nolan to bring House in, Wilson managed to drive House back to the apartment, stuff a few items into a suitcase and begin the four-hour drive up to Mayfield.

Wilson was glad when House passed out asleep not soon after he began driving—he looked exhausted. And from putting together some of the pieces of the story he got so far, it was clear to Wilson that House hadn't got a real night's sleep in a while.

It was two hours into the ride when House stirred awake—his blue eyes fluttering tiredly, adjusting to the sun. He looked at Wilson, who had his gaze firmly planted on the road.

"Did sleep do you any good?" Wilson asked.

House exhaled shakily, "Stop the car." His white knuckles clutched the seat firmly.

"We're in the middle of the highway…"

"Stop the damn car!"

Wilson signaled the other vehicles and managed to swing his way to the side of the highway. As soon as the Volvo came to a stop, House lunged out and threw up violently on the side of the road.

Wilson hurried to House's side, catching him right before his leg caved in awkwardly. He helped him down to his knees so he could finish retching. Only when he was done, did Wilson speak again.

"Is there anything… at all I can do to help you?"

House spit on the ground and wiped his mouth with his sleeve carelessly, "You can tell your dead girlfriend to shut up!" he yelped. His voice was hysterical, like nothing Wilson had ever heard House do before. It cut through his heart like a knife.

"Is…" Wilson's eyes widened, "is she here? Now?"

Amber was seated on the side of the road next to House. _"Tell him to turn the car around and drive back home, you think your nausea is bad now? Wait 'till we get to the looney bin and they take away your pills for good…"_

"Shut up!" House croaked.

"What?" Wilson raised an eyebrow.

"Not you…" he scratched his head profusely.

"_You hallucinated the last two days… how do you know this is even real?" _Hallucination Kutner asked.

House whimpered, clutching his head between his arms. Wilson had never seen House this terrified in the entire time he had known him—not even after the infarction was he ever this out of it. It struck a chord with Wilson— watching House behave like that. It reminded him of Danny.

"House…" Wilson clicked his fingers in front of his friends face, "House listen to me…" he shook his shoulder gently. "I know this is probably scary… but regardless of what you're seeing or hearing right now can you listen to me? Can you hear me?"

House's breath hitched, "Yeah…" he rubbed his temples.

"Good." Wilson let out a sigh, "So I need you to listen to _my_ voice no matter who else is talking."

House nodded.

"Good. You ready to go back to the car?"

House's eyes were still shut, "I think I'm gonna be sick again…"

"That's fine…" Wilson helped House up to his feet, "That's fine… Just… be sick in the car…"

He led House back to his seat and closed the passenger side door. "Lets just get you to where you need to be so you can get better…"

…

House looked at his reflection in the mirror; graying stubble, untidy long hair and fresh bags under his bloodshot eyes. He looked terrible, which wasn't surprising since he hadn't got a lick of sleep in three days. From the other side of the door he could hear Wilson violently coughing again. By the sound of it, at least it wasn't a bloody cough—but it still echoed painfully through the thin motel walls.

The sound made House wince. He turned on the faucet and splashed his face with some cool water to help him wake up. He then gave his sad reflection one final look before stepping back into the main room.

Wilson was still lying on the couch, his silhouette rising from under the blanket with the sound of every cough.

"Wake up…" House kneeled on the carpet in front of the couch and shook Wilson gently.

Wilson groaned, and House could feel his body shake even under the heavy blanket.

"Wilson, turn around…" House asked tiredly. He was glad Wilson was too out of it to notice the gloominess of his tone.

Finally, after realizing Wilson won't be a cooperative patient, House turned his friend himself.

Wilson opened a pair of dark eyes and looked straight at House.

"I eh…" It was incredibly difficult for House to see Wilson like this; "…I want to check some of your vitals… you up for it?"

Wilson nodded and made a feeble attempt to get into a sitting position. House quickly noticed and lunged forward to help his friend up.

"Okay…" House said in a low whisper, "You're good..." he noted how Wilson could barely hold his head up.

"You have to drink something, Wilson…" House urged, "No IV's in Shithole USA here…"

Wilson breathed heavily, "No… wise crack… about… shriveling up…" he coughed, "like a prune?"

"Will that make you feel better?" House asked.

"No." Wilson coughed.

"Well then what's the point?" House replied groggily.

"Since when do you need one?" Wilson asked, inhaling small bits of air.

House sighed, "Just drink your damn water, will you?" he averted his gaze and turned his head back only when he heard Wilson's cough echo from inside the water glass. He placed his hand on Wilson's back, "Sip slow…"

"You see…" Wilson put the glass down and leaned back on the couch, "The fact… that… you didn't end… that sentence… with… _'You idiot'_… makes me… suspicious…"

"What do you want me to say, Wilson?" House rasped dryly.

"The truth?" Wilson croaked, "You don't… seriously believe… I'm getting up from this couch…" he coughed harshly, "Do you?" he looked at House with wet glassy feverish eyes.

House shook his head, "Wilson don't…"

"As a doctor…" Wilson cut House off, "Not…As a friend, House…"

"But I'm not a doctor… remember?"

Wilson smiled, "Yeah I remember." he coughed, "…you idiot…"

Seeing Wilson smile like that gave House the last dose of courage he needed to do one last act of kindness towards his friend, supposedly one he was good at delivering—the truth.

"You're dying…" he let the words leave his lips with coldness—leaving a shiver down his spine.

Wilson's face contorted into a sad grimace.

House shook his head," I tried… I… your temp won't come down… your oxygen is in the tank… It's in your thymus, it's in your lungs…" House paused to compose himself, "I… am pretty sure it's in your bones… but then I thought… liver? Heart? Infection?" he nodded, as if he was diagnosing the conditions progression in his head, "It doesn't matter though." He turned to face Wilson, "You're dying."

Wilson inhaled whatever little air he could and propped his head back down on the pillow.

House peeked at Wilson— he expected more of a reaction.

"Are you..." House was about to say "OK" when it hit him just how ridiculous it would be to ask a dying man that question.

"I'm tired…" Wilson decided he would shake House off the hook, "It's okay…"

House bit his lip. Nothing will ever be okay.

…

House managed to get some shuteye that night. He had no idea how long he dozed off for, but it was the sound of Wilson's painful groans that woke him up again.

He shot up, hissing from the pain in his thigh—he forgot when the last time was he even took a Vicodin. He made a mental note to himself to take one as soon as he tends to Wilson—he could not afford to go into withdrawal. Not now.

He limped in the darkness to face his friend—his sick mess of a friend.

"Wilson…" House whispered in his familiar gravelly voice—a voice Wilson's mind had learned to associate with comfort, "What hurts?"

Wilson winced and gagged with pain, "Everything…" he coughed and in some deep part of his mind kicked himself for not succumbing to the comforts of a hospital and modern medicine.

"Be specific so I can help you!" House urged, growing increasingly frustrated with this mess of a situation they were put in.

"House…" Wilson didn't seem to hear House's previous request, "I don't want to die…" he shook his head and gagged, "I was wrong…" tears began rolling down his cheeks, "I should've… done the chemo…"

"Don't do this to yourself…" House begged. He tried to remain collected for the sake of his friend, but he could feel his heart beat out of his chest.

"I'm scared… I'm not ready to die…"

House could barely hold it together, he closed his eyes and clumped his fingers into tight fists, "But you are…" he said—not daring to open his eyes.

"It hurts…" he heard Wilson moan through strained breaths and tears. It killed him that there was absolutely nothing he could do to help—a world-renowned diagnostician who was helpless in the face of boring ol' cancer. A cancer that was about to take the only friend he ever had, the only person he had left in this godless world.

"_There's nothing you can do."_

…

"Hey, House?" House could hear Wilson's voice in the distance, "House…" – and there it was again. He stirred, and as he did so he realized, yes, now he remembered—he was asleep.

"House?" Wilson's voice echoed once more. But House didn't want to wake up. No. It was nice where he was, in this warm dream. And reality was… not.

But it was too late, and the feeling of Wilson's body tense with every cough stirred him awake. And the source of the warmth in his dream was revealed_— "oh, right..." _he remembered. A short while after both he and Wilson acknowledged there was nothing left to do but wait for certain death, House put Wilson back on the oxygen and pulled out the last bottle of Oxycontin. They toasted to life, death and to stupid choices—acknowledging that they both made their fair share. Wilson took four. House helped himself to one—Wilson insisted.

When Wilson's pain did not fully subside, House first placed his hand firmly on top of his unconscious friend. But he himself was suffering from pain and exhaustion at this point. Refusing to let Wilson go through this alone but fighting his own urge to rest, House found only one suitable compromise…

And that's how House ended up dozing on the couch, and how Wilson ended up using House's lap as a pillow, and how House's hand remained planted across Wilson's rib cage even as they both slept. And that, House acknowledged, is how he will forever remember the source of the warmest dream he ever had.

"House…" Wilson's hoarse voice peeked into Houses consciousness again—only this time House was awake enough to reply.

"Yeah?" his heart beat out of his chest with sudden relief— no dream this time; Wilson was still alive.

"Do you see that?" Wilson asked calmly, his head still planted on House's lap.

"See what?" House asked tiredly, allowing himself to place his hand on Wilson's head.

"Stars…" Wilson croaked, "a butt load of them…"

"You're hallucinating…" House looked down at his friend, "And you don't seem terribly bothered by it…" he removed a stray clump of sweaty hair from Wilson's face, "Good for you…" he nodded in approval.

Wilson coughed, which made House instinctively tighten his grasp of Wilson's shoulder.

"Hey House…"

"Why are you talking so much?" House raised an eyebrow.

Wilson giggled. And it made House happier than anything.

"I just…" Wilson wheezed, "I just… I mean, promise me… you'll be okay?"

"What kind of an idiotic question is that?" House growled at his lap, "Look at your dumb stars…"

Wilson looked up, and for a split second his brown eyes met House's icy-blues.

House felt a lump build up in his throat. "I can't promise you I'll be okay…" his voice broke, "I'm gonna miss you… and… not having you… is gonna suck…" his voice hitched in his throat, "and you're lucky…" he looked down at Wilson, "you're lucky your brain is so full of endorphins right now I don't even know how much of you is actually left… because… losing you is the hardest thing I've ever had to do." He wiped his nose with his sleeve, "And I… don't… I don't know what to say anymore."

"How about… goodbye?" Wilson offered.

Wilson's faint words hit House like a brick. How is it that even in his last moments Wilson managed to offer House one last epiphany? How many people get to actually say goodbye to their loved ones? It is a rare occasion when a person does not actually die alone. And Wilson, the magnificent bastard… he was unconscious, barely breathing! But the bastard hung for dear life, managed to wake House up and in a sea of stars was determined to leave House a final parting gift—the notion that sometimes life _can_ deal you some fairness and give you what you deserve. And a friendship like theirs _deserved_ closure. They deserved a goodbye.

House ran his hand through Wilson's hair, down the back of his neck and over his spine, "Goodbye, Wilson."

And when his hand finally reached Wilson's, he thought he felt him squeeze back—though he could never know for sure.

His best friend— the only brother he had ever known was gone.

…

They went through the drill many times. To the point where House felt he was automatically programmed to go through with it:

He pulled out Wilson's real ID and credit cards from the back compartment of Wilson's duffle bag and placed them in his wallet on the side table. He then grabbed any evidence of the names "Kyle Callaway" and "James Callaway" and removed them from the room. He went through every bag, every shirt and every pocket—leaving nothing that was even remotely close to being associated with the name Gregory House. He disposed of any drugs that were not lawfully purchased, the pre-paid phones and even of Wilson's non PPTH X-Ray—just in case.

When he deemed the room as clean, he took one last quick look at the shell that used to belong to his friend, grabbed his belongings and closed the door behind him.

He threw his things into the Challenger, started the ignition and drove for a good fifty miles, finally stopping at the side of a road to nowhere. The sun was beginning to rise and the motel workers will find the body soon. With the help of the documentations left behind, they'll deliver the body to Wilson's parents and they can give him a proper burial.

Solid plan.

And as the sun began to fill the lone prairie with the light of a new day— Gregory House, who some might've known as James Callaway, just sat there hoping the world would stop for a while— and so it did.

And he cried for his friend, and he cried for his brother, for he knew there would never be another.

….

_Authors notes: YES there is a chapter 12, perhaps even a 13. This story is not finished._


End file.
